A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Sometimes I think my face is a map,
each line a faint record of hidden scars,
of what I’ve seen or felt. My skin retains
traces of every fleeting breeze, of drifting
snowflakes, remembers the warmth
of noonday sun, the salty trickle of sorrow
mixed with raindrops, and even the slightest
shiver, the music of light melting down my cheeks.
An imprint remains of the faces
whose gaze lingered over my face
with fingers on the tip of their words,
or outlined my features with fingers
weighed down with words. I often see
that other face beneath the one looking
at me in the mirror, swelling with recollections,
unraveling all my senses.
First published by Cimarron Review. From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019).