In the Morning


My boy
is like a yawning clown
when he wakes:
creased smiles
at the corners of his eyes,
laughter gleaned
from parties.

My boy
is a crumpled menagerie,
animals folded into his trousers.
A single tuft of hair
sits up,
all whiskers:
its nose twitching at something
on the windowsill.

My boy
is talcum powder.
He rubs sleep from eyes,
Seurat dots that twist
in the first bars
of light, glitter.
Touch his cheek with a thumb;
I come away with
butterfly dust.

My boy
is freshly laundered,
a sunrise
spilled across our sheets.
Blue glimpsed through the curtains:
he is that
where sun and sky meet.

This poem was originally published in Micropress Oz (August 2001).