Creative Nonfiction Writer, Fiction Writer, Poet
Corvallis, Portland, and Seattle, WA
My son has shaved round his eyebrows. I am not
supposed to notice, as if they shaped themselves,
once he made his preference known. At just fifteen
his moustache is a stipple, his beard a mere
suggestion of goatee, but these eyebrows take flight,
a swath of beaten foliage, sheltering his sight.
Thick and broad above his eyes, peregrine wings
feather wide, emphatic statements. He has
taken razor to brow bone, temple, forehead,
shaved a new form, tame, one slim word each,
removed that raucous grown vocabulary.
Caught by surprise, he smiles elf-bright, eyes
wide, these new softspoke brows. He denies
he’s clipped them, impatient as his grin, moves off.
from North American Review
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Last updated: Feb 16, 2017