At twenty you’ve managed to erase our dad’s face from your own, blacked out his sharp cheekbones with roses, marked each eyelid with an upside-down cross to distract from his glossy brown irises. DEATH spreads over your freckles next to a faded knife. I envy the stick-and-pokes sprawled across your forehead, the sparrow and SEE NO EVIL. How you’ve buried him in black ink. My own freckles are a reminder of every time he left; my eyes are the color of a leather belt.
