So here is a strange thing.
Birthdays are terrible. Or, at least mine is to me. I write to my social worker, say: I know you have told me there is no more information in my file, but there is reference in some documents to a foster family. Do you have any information on them?
She writes back: In regards to searching for your foster family, we have their old address and phone number but the phone number is out of service and the address is also not traceable. At this point, it’s quite difficult to find them. I’m sorry I can’t give you a good news.
I am wondering why she did not give me this old address, this telephone number in 2001 when I first inquired or in 2012 when I wrote again.
This name. She has a name. Why not give me a name?
Meanwhile, there is this terrifying and beautiful little book of poems: Zachary Schomburg’s from the fjords (Spork Press, 2010). Here is a poem called “Lake.”
But it’s for you.