She changes faces for me like I changed my body for her, A shifting aside of organs and a spreading of skin (But leave the bones untouched) I shaped her bones, I formed her marrow -- What is her face, to me? I clutch at her, a stripped and trembling branch Clinging to this last bronzed leaf, And she whirls away. It seems a cruelty in her, (the rejection stinging in my mouth like the taste of brass keys Held against my tongue while I fumbled with childhood doors As firmly shut against me as she is), this flaunted refusal To snuggle close, to rest in my arms And let me enfold her in myself. And so by night I chase her, Down clattering cobblestone lanes of regret Through thorn-filled savannahs named "what if?" And to elude me, her mother, She changes faces.