My lover is a young boy again

Sitting in the center of a picnic bench

Leaning on the edge of a table

At a milestone,

Ready to leave his infancy.

Across the table

Invisibly, we sit together,

Together and each alone,

Waiting for him to envision us.

His sons,

His wife.

We unfurl our breath

To call him forth

But he cannot hear us

He is too young for us yet,

He only sees the lens

And the smooth face behind it,

The way young eyes do,

And he looks at the glass

Reflecting the light

Toward us,

And feels on his skin

The warm breath of sunlight.

He is cast for the world

Of his own design.

He is life about to create life,

He is a babe about to unfurl

Out of a particular tragedy

Into his own form of triumph.

He is himself


He is of our past

And of our future too,

He is the life of the dream

And the dream of the life.

He is crowned in his own perfect image,

looking and waiting

As we wait

For everything to come true.

© Deborah Garcia 2019

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