Published on: 1/27/2010
After the Stroke

Your history's compressed inside a smile,
like a portrait of an ancient king:
the white beard of a sage, eyes of a child.

A sudden sentence levied without trial
has made of you this unexpected thing,
a history compressed inside a smile.

You watch us watching, silent all the while,
a canted mouth half-hidden in your straggling
white beard. Of a sage's eyes, this child

can only dream. These heart-struck days are wild
with desperate questions, fears, imaginings:
a history compressed. Inside our smiles,

we read our blurring Russian novels, exiled
to uncertainty. It's too confusing
for the wisdom of a sage, much less a child

who wakes one morning in familiar style
to find a parent mute as wood, trapping
our history, compressed, inside. A smile

is all that's left. We must be reconciled
to watch you mime the notes you used to sing,
your history compressed inside a smile,
the white beard of a sage, eyes of a child.