The surface of the water
does not offer perspective,
only the flat reality of the boy
in a puffed-up jacket,
crouched over water so darkly lit
one might mistake it
for high gloss on a stained floor.
No, that’s the earth
under his hands, one hand at the water’s edge,
the other, turned inward, immersed.
A single knee exposed—
the moon lost in its orbit
around a void.
The water unites
the boy and what the boy sees.
The water is the means; it does not mean anything.
Who would want to tell the boy
his knee is not the moon?
I want to tell the boy, keep looking,
brush the hair from his eye,
rotate his hand so his wrist
does not tire,
free his calf from the weight
of his knee.
Mostly, I want to be water,
the source of his love.
But I am on the ground
recreating the painting
looking down at my rug—
one hand on the fringe,
the other on the wood floor,
my knee already in pain
my heel sharp against my groin.
But at what cost?
I pay someone to ask me again and again and again.