By Alison Seevak

The book said to wait
to undress you, your clothes
the one thing you had left,
so after they handed you
to me, red-faced, screaming,
Anna-when-you-were-still-ZhuZhu,
little pearl, little Michelin Man,
swaddled in layers of leggings and sweaters
because the Chinese like to keep
the wind from their babies,
although the air hung still in Wuhan that day,
late March, my arms bare in shirtsleeves
and you arching away from me.
The book said to wait to undress you,
three beads of sweat stood up
on the sweet bridge of your nose,
but I waited all afternoon
to unbutton your jacket. I waited
until after I'd brought you back
to the Hotel Shangri-La,
fed you Cheerios, rolled a yellow ball
across the expanse of king-sized bed.
You smiled, and so it began.
I peeled off the purple silk jacket,
lined with blue hearts and mended
under the left arm, the pink wool cardigan,
the red padded vest, the yellow and green
striped sweater, a stitch dropped by the collar,
three pairs of split pant leggings,
the tiger-face slippers
your foster mother put on your feet
because dressing you for the last time
that morning she must have
wished you both strength,
the soaked paper diaper tied around your waist
with red string.