Our teen boy claims:
droops below its perfect bone line,
he will kill himself--
so unable to bear life
without glacier taut skin--without
the tangled dark hedges
thickening head to limb.
It would have been easy
to fall on my knees in tears
to recal my own youth,
when the cells of this body
loaded up like bee hives
with clear honey,
when my own eyes beamed
from stars within,
not yet being a moist-eyed widow
staring out from heaps of stones
lathered in froth along the shore--
not yet sitting like a living memorial
with a fault line carved
on my heart--without
this fierce longing
to blend with the lavender
of sky and sea,
all sadness gone
from this throat.
But the feeing passes.
This boy, this figure of beauty,
believes one day he
will will smash himself
against the kitchen wall
like an empty wine bottle.
Oh Just wait, I tell him,
Watch how long--with what heart--
your shaky hand clasps that bottle.
