Hedy Habra: Topography

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.

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First published by Cimarron Review. From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019).