A 5 o’clock shadow darkened her blood smeared face
before Irish cleaned it with a mother’s tongue
gently with an instinct that eclipsed learning.
The nose grew. The color darkened.
Now a lump of coal.
The black so black
I fancy I can see my face reflected there.
But it is only a nose.
A nose to point her way from whelping to weaning.
A nose that sneaks beneath the bed skirt to worry the dust bunnies.
A nose that pushes sand before it as it tunnels past the tideline to the Bay.