Self-Portrait

The hair of the living no different

than the hair of the dead.

He writes poems in the sky with twigs

of burning rosemary. What I have

that he doesn’t: a face.

I forgive myself—

floating on the surface

of the water face up as my shadow

sinks to the bottom. Sweet boy

you will be good at nothing.

When he blows a kiss toward the camera, snowflakes

billow from his lips. Night cowboy.

Snow hour. To shake a garden snake

from a pile of dead leaves and branches,

to think I have finally found myself

beneath all this skin.

Should the wind be wild—

paraphrase, rebuild.

The opposite of a clock hanging on the wall,

a crucifixion.

I found him naked, spread eagle on the bed.

But I was filming, so he was gentle.

In his hands, the camera lens was a puddle of rainwater

in the desert. This year, no snow.

This year, he pulls a bouquet

of lilies out of his car, throws them on the concrete.

They shatter like stained glass.

As he sleeps, I search his face

for resemblance,

but it is as I feared—ripples only,

the occasional wave.