Faces

My granddaughter’s eyelashes are arcs
of fringe at the edge of her lids
as she stares down at a sheet of paper,

her right hand, intent on capturing
the two dogs’ faces, guides a pen: Frida
with her sugar-cone-shaped snout

and triangular ears, inky coat
a dead match for her eyes, orbs
only visible when light catches them,

Sylvia with her paper-plate-shaped face,
kitchen-mop fur, fangs, and ray-gun glare
demanding food food food. When the portraits

are drawn, Molly’s blue irises rise to meet mine
and we both grin. Hers, with a gap where a baby tooth
used to be, traded to a fairy last week for two dollars.