When your brown son tells you over dinner he thinks he's ugly.


When you stutter on your own memories.

When you reach for him, a table and a canyon away.


His hair in your hands, a thousand falling stars, each one a wish

that has already passed.


How can you describe grace to a seven year old being

raised in a broken funhouse?

Mirrors so curved your face becomes dusk.

Walls made of elbows.

Doors made of fists.

When you walk into an uppercut and say you're sorry.


Why believe me, a woman with quilted skin,

a mother with a leaking heart,

rising tides on my breath,

when I say you are so beautiful nothing can sink you.  


When I kiss you like a papercut.

Like a king of spades.

Like a bird born from my sleeve.


When I hold you like the greatest bomb I ever made.

Delicate and reckless and exquisite.

So handsome every morning you burst.

So fine our demons die just looking at you.


You, the color of a good luck penny,

You, the color of harvest,

You, the color of a plot twist,

the color of anthems,


You the color of flight.


Aint a ray of sun in the new world

that won't wanna shine

on your face.