The Artist’s Baby
He ran his stubby fingers through the rubber shreds,
making loops or throwing tiny fistfuls at the cat.
She continued to furiously erase an imperfect ocean wave
as he played on and on with the ruins of his mother’s art.
‘tomorrow’ she thought
she’d teach him how to draw his own oceans
erase his own imperfect waves
‘tomorrow,’ she thought
she’d fix the oceans and sell this canvas
she’d buy his textbooks and start anew
Between the blue on her stained fingers
and the hollow uncertainty of tomorrow
she hovers unmoved, unabashed by
a son she acquired through parchments and blue ink
‘tomorrow’ she thought
she’d prove: to love what isn’t hers
is as real as to love what is
‘tomorrow’ she knew
he may find the truth, but unabashed and unmoved
he’d play with the ruins of his mother’s art