Bleed Into My Boy
Published in Chronogram, 2021

This is my son,
I draw him a bit darker today.
I press hard on the pen
and feel the weight
and watch the ink–
bleed into my boy.
I draw him,
and I press hard.
Because I think on him,
I love on him every day.
I watch the ink
play through his hair,
dripping into tiny locs–
dreaded.
What is this,
my son, twelve and bigger each day.
I can feel a new firmness in his back
when we wrestle.
I think on this sketch.
This darker sketch–
of my boy carried into our lighter town.
He’s chasing a friend across a neighbors yard.
How hard do I–
press the pen,
before my boy is a threat,
and not a friend?