When I was a kid, my mother
had the prettiest face: a smile
that could pry open the hearts
of construction workers, eyes
bright as a Kennedy’s future,
lips red as a robin feather floating
in a bathtub filled with milk,
and everybody loved her.

But when we came home,
she’d take off her face and hang it
on a special pole by her bed,
and if I got scared, or sad, or just
wanted the lollipop of her attention,
she couldn’t give it, because
she didn’t have any eyes, or
mouth to teach the word stop.
No lips to kiss me goodnight,
or nose to smell the roses
balled up in my fist.