Yak by Robbie Gamble

Had Vermeer been around in 1990
he would have painted this:
soft Ontario morning light pouring
through the bay window onto
Yak, Sudanese Lost Boy, who
has folded his seven-foot self
down onto our sofa, and propped
our toddler, Joseph, on his narrow lap.
Yak is pulling faces,
puffing his blue-black cheeks,
baring immaculate teeth,
rolling wild eyes under the matrix
of Dinka tribal scars that scroll
geometrically across his forehead.
He rears up, dragon-fierce,
then lolls into a goofy teen pose,
a side he rarely shows,
and Joseph, blonde and milk-white,
is entranced, he throws his head back
in gutbucket laughter that fills
the apartment with their joy.
They keep at it for an hour:
grimace/chortle, smirk/shriek,
and for that time, I don’t believe
there are any other two people
on the entire planet, who need
each other more than they do.

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Robbie Gamble’s works have appeared in Scoundrel Time, Solstice, RHINO, and Poet Lore. He was the winner of the 2017 Carve Poetry prize, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He works as a nurse practitioner caring for homeless people in Boston.

Photo: Mark Daynes