That morning, I woke without a face.
I had dropped it,
sleep walking at night,
through
a forest of fallen trees.
The worms had gotten to
all but the ears.
In the shop down the road,
they had just sold the last human face.
“Sorry, madam. We are out of stock,” the salesman informed a friend,
“In any case, we only do disposables
and the lady, you say, wants a face
that will weather
the long winters of dying poems?
A more permanent sort of face, that would be then…
We don’t do those, I’m afraid.”
Eventually, I have to settle for a disposable.
A face that will not out-last
the forgetting of lines.
But it can do “sad”.
And it can do “happy”.
It can get on
better than my old face could.
On the first day of every month,
I walk to that forest of fallen trees
and bury my face
in a graveyard filled with my faces.
Carefully, I put on a new one,
pink and fresh from its plastic case and,
despite the absence of interested worms,
die again
and again
and again.
