she sang to my round belly
i did not enjoy it; i am so self-conscious
lately about its state of roundness
but she was young and didn’t really notice.
besides, it was the only place of me
that would make a good audience
what with her height and reluctance to strain her neck
and nonchalant manner.
she sang nonsense and giggly words about
what happened yesterday, and water,
and the way ants tickle her nose
and everything fine and beautiful like that.
i began to feel that although it was my belly she was singing to
at least she was singing to some part of me
the ants tickle my nose, too.
his accent was thick
but his eyes were thicker.
i didn’t understand a single word he said,
no, i didn’t, but i knew what he was saying.
i am reading a book
openly, in the deepest brown,
in the furrowed brow and curved lips,
that is so very beautiful and well-written.
the wrinkles fall fast,
canyons that are so telling
of everything his eyes have seen
all those years, all that time, that wisdom.
his portrait is a story.
his eyes are an emotion.
his face is an idea,
in your photograph.