it is the thin line of hair removed
that makes me wonder.
don't want to introduce my self into your story
personas do not matter
but my bushy eyebrows
their delicate hairs
do battle with your vague pencil strokes,
and i want to ask
what has been ripped from you?
caring for an elder beyond age,
ninety-six and tottering,
you speak of him as one would a grandfather,
long lost, years at sea, brother.
what binds you to care of the elderly
with the same fervent passion you clean my house
dust my books?
the immigrant tale is old on your face
you do all this and have a nine to five
complete with beating boyfriend in jail
as he raised his fist to your jaw,
you jailed him;
dared him to ever hit you again.
but i see the pencil lines that are what remain
of those delicate hairs built to protect the eye
and i wonder,
why do i never hear spanish
from your obviously mechican mouth?
anglo last name a puzzle,
i want to visit your home
meet your mother
understand what you teach the niece who came once to help out
the uncle's girlfriend who stands in the shadows
you say you work so constantly to avoid thought
of boyfriend you miss so deeply
whom you would jail again in a minute.
and i remain drawn to the mark of your eyebrow pencil eyebrows
sign of hope for beauty, hope for glamour,
and a fury that plucked every hair out.