small hands around the Crayola–
along the way to a portrait of the unit,
title missing but they insist: my family–
yield three figures, aloof ovals

surrounded by the corner sun.
neighbors pass, calling us the model–
letting go of the evident mistake,
expecting a response to my depiction of you–

underneath smudges of thin lines,
seated across from me, evidence in hand–
demanding me to answer:
“why is my mouth a four?”

remnants of her future flash through,
hitting the fractured barrier to her eyes–
she never forgot her path handed to her, an unbreakable contract;
tracing two smiles and the four, she will have an answer herself–

for the Novembers she will always fall to her knees before the leaves,

for the desperate pleas with the dog to take us far away from here,

for the moment she wished the car crashed–so your fists weren’t the only reason for the dents on
the dashboard,

for the run next door, Paul Revering the coming of your temperament–

trying to forget what is bound, but no marker covers the four on your mouth.