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.