My father is sixteen
and standing in front of a window,
watching the curtains
rise and fall
in a warm wet breeze.
The smell of dinner
still lingers in the new house,
now silent and full of
sleep and night.
The curtains are blue
ones his stepmother picked out.
She took him with her to shop for them,
and afterwards they went to the ice cream parlor.
She thinks blue is his favorite color.
The bright moon rises
over the trees and houses
of the neighborhood.
The light takes away the colors;
it offers and needs nothing.
He looks at the curtains,
billowing and sinking silently
in the air.
He closes his eyes;
it’s the night, the indifferent moon,
and the ache singing him to sleep.
“This is my mother,” he says.
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