Annette, this is an older poem… tightened it up… revised… rearranged… thinking of submitting to Ariel… let me know what you think…
My son and I play Owl,
a game I learn from a Nordic woman
with solar eyes charged with the Northern Lights.
He leans down to me. With splayed
fingers, I hold his heavy head between my palms.
I aim my forehead into his.
His hair's too long. He hasn't
shaved. His ginger whiskers look like molt.
"Close your eyes," I say. I open mine as wide
as caverns, pressing closer, gaining precious fractions
until our faces are nearly conjoined, pupil to pupil,
mysterious centers. I wish I could push
through his skull to know what he's thinking,
what he’s doing, if he's using. I can remember a time when
all I saw was green.
"Open," I say, hopeful.
He opens his eyes into my huge orbs, his large lever
hands resting on my shoulders.
He laughs, pleased by the attention.
The object of the game is to startle,
tubular-eyed proximity, gathering light,
information, courage, shining it back.
"Now you," he says, unfurling his scroll of a forehead
in my direction.