Those Eyes

Sarah-Marissa Marquez

After Robert Hayden’s, “Those Winter Sundays”

Sunday morning, overcast,
free after breakfast, I am sitting in the middle
of my son’s playpen, to give him
space to move around me.

I can tell he is thinking, I am
too close. And it’s true: I can
easily reach out and touch him on the shoulder,
cotton-knit jersey shirt sleeve.

But I don’t. I follow his rebellious arm,
waving up in the air, long and thin.
I am content playing whatever game
this is, that he made up.

I work hard to imagine, he is too fast
for me to tag. All his energy
blazing, even though his belly is full
of milk sloshing around.

I wonder how he can still move,
fast as fly boy—he keeps one hand out
to steady himself, and then stops.
His eyes meet mine—a Déjà vu

moment. Just like that, I am pulled
inside the world of moments, soft,
fleeting, but otherwise undisturbed
as the day going on without me—

wet February outside the window,
raindrops sliding down, and further
softening a view of the neighborhood.
I am reminded of a daydream

on canvas: Reflections of The Blue Rain
by Leonid Afremov. A spectrum
of blue color values: Darkest navy
street blue to lightest nearly white

rain blue. I must get used to this life,  
being a mother, not exactly wanted 
but needed. Drawn back to the present  
by those irresistible eyes, and full  

lashes. My son’s penetrating gaze. 
Always welcome, in my gaze, 
settling. It is comforting to know  
we are connected—we even share  

the same self-questioning look.  
And if I look away first, he will find  
my face again—my eyes, dark brown  
and safe to trust. It only takes one second 

for his face to reappear, perfectly formed.  
The way his eyes are unchanging,  
deep blue, part gray, and where the colors  
blend around the iris, flecked with silver.