I don’t remember faces from my childhood.
They’re a blur: exaggerated smiles,
Eyebrows, haloed heads that burned as wild
As light allowed. My squinting smeared the aisles
And checkout lanes into impressionist
Paintings every time my parents handed
Their seven-year-old son a shopping list
And food stamps, but I did as they demanded.
One day, I brought my youngest sister in
To be my eyes. She asked me why the shoppers
Were angry, but I couldn’t see past dinner.
As we checked out, a granny—no one stopped her—
Called us scum and said our parents were lazy.
She followed us, spit, and then called me crazy.
Face-to-Face
