Christian Spinning

My son who is blue-eyed and sensitive
thinks he’s alone in his room 
where his music bumps and heaves. 
I stand unseen at the door which is open
holding a stack of clean folded clothes.
He faces a window overlooking the city
(it might as well be the complete universe)
which bruises him in small ways all day.
The back of his pale freckled neck 
toils his head with the count; 
his elbows, boneless and fluid, 
unbind his hands, 
set them whorling in erratic ovals. 
Bare feet balance his knotted boy body
tossed like clay on a wheel; 
his longish hair, blonded by sun, 
flutters loose, shines now 
and hurts my eyes. 
I am promised to silence, 
to the spectacle of his labor, 
his most secret heart, 
skinned, and spinning.