In a restaurant off Highway I-35,
that might have been Cajun or Italian,
which my father picked for my going away lunch,
my nephew is lying face down across my lap
while I wait for my chicken marsala
with crab etouffee.
I tent my arms around him and yell,
“You're asleep!” and for some reason
he thinks this is hilarious.
He twirls to face me, swims up his soft hands
and fixes them over my eyebrows.
You don't have eyebrows, he declares.
He touches me as if I were a lost dog,
believing love will make me stay with him.
My impulse is to run, having had little
practice with little trusting hands.
But today I must protest an eyebrow theft,
and his giggles fill the space like a hot, salty bath.