What the boy draws happens.
He sketched an orange this afternoon.
Nice still life, I thought
until the winter sky
spawned a vermilion moon.

On his bedside locker this morning,
a jungle scene. When I saw
the stems that the geraniums
sprouted over lunch,
the glass in my hand smashed on the tiles.

Later, a back leg snapped off my chair
and I scalded myself with tea. A fist
of paper in his wastebasket smoothed to reveal
three tall S’s rising from a mug
on a three-legged seat.

I confiscated every sketch pad and page,
pencil, crayon and pen in the house.
Not an hour after, I found him on his knees,
working a nugget of coal across my best blouse.
Seeing me, he dropped it onto—a face?

You can’t imagine how tightly I grip
the banister whenever I descend stairs,
my anxiety at the line of light
under his bedroom door.
Truly, I dread the holidays.