Sometimes another boy will play with him,
and then, though his face is made of stone,
a suggestion of eyes and nose, no mouth at all,
I know he is happy, because I am his mother
and mothers know these things.
He and the other boy go down the slide,
jostling and tussling like any two boys,
and I thank the other parent, a dad,
for letting my son play with his son,
and he tells me That’s OK, like this is
all perfectly normal, and the dad’s face,
his readable, human face, tells me he
believes this, that there’s nothing wrong
with my son, no reason he shouldn’t
find a friend other than me
or the boxes and cans
in his favorite kitchen cabinet.
Later, I will stroke my son’s face,
this smooth mystery I’ve loved,
as tears move through me
like water through a wall.