How I Cry

I open my face to disguise 

naïveté, you call it, this drive 

to include kind ones in my fenced-in sense

of beauty. My dutiful outreach

to locket strands of your hair saved in 

the pliable book of birth pictures 

minus offspring to leave to. Death will come 

unwelcome. An indelible playpen 

from which I call to invent you. My lore 

trespasses on the truth. My lord 

and mastery of stage fright, freighter flight.

I will be a bird soon. Locate height enough

to achieve the sky, my alto vowel 

sounds striving for alikeness with you.