Truth and beauty: what a mother knows ...

Derivative

I walk behind,

they ahead,

laughing and insouciant,

too loud on lithe, lovely legs

The girl striking, green eyes

and thick wavy hair,

who also happens to be a genius

with low self-esteem

(and strange fingers due to fever,

once you hold them and stroke them,

you realize how short they are,

and crooked

and unfortunately sweaty)

but they work so well with

type, and charm birds with a clarinet

The blue-eyed boy a swaggerer

or maybe it’s just the age—13—

and broad, so very broad,

those shoulders

(so broad that they were stuck

at birth, and one collarbone

was snapped, like a twig,

to remove him)

but great for batting practice

or hauling wood

or establishing dominance

among the other bull calves

These are mine I want to say,

as they cut a swath through the mall.

But they are not mine.

They belong to each other,

and to whomever is beguiled

by their crooked fingers and green eyes,

broken bones at birth, and blue eyes,

warped, mended, derivative

flawed, and so beautiful


PD/Nov 2/2011