a portrait

here, with books stacked bedside
light like honey on the south wall
my father's glasses are too big for me,
and too weak
ankles crossed, repose,
that contemplative look
i am all questions,
not to be mistaken with mystery
bitten lips, sleepy eyes, bruised thighs
i am missing someone i have never met
and homesick for a place
i've never seen
i hide my elbows and my hips
i dabble, i do not practice
i am anything but linear
pouring too much sugar in my tea
just to see it sparkle as it comes back up
rolled sleeves, usually
alone, mostly
but in september i burn, and i rise