like his orange-painted Dutch hair,
often fit unsettlingly comfortable
onto Vincent’s pale, slim face
that his catholic mother had so begrudgingly given him.
sometimes, with slow purpose,
take his small hands
in her own
and try, with his nubby fingers as tools,
to smooth out the tiny,
forked wrinkles that clouded the space between his thin, girlish eyebrows.
deep, she removed her hands
and brought them up
to cover her own face
the terrors and illness
inside of his mind.