In the season of Lent
There is a lovely, charming little exercise I do with my young poetry students: My face & I. We draw self-portraits, then write. Lovely. Charming. Likewise, this picture of my SpiderGirl. Adorable. Charming. As for this poem, all I can say is, someone must have ticked off my muse.
Can anyone explain it? Thanks for reading!
In the Season of Lent, I Give Up Unneccesary Spending
My face and I have made a deal.
No more masks. Last night’s battle
royale over budgets, bathtimes, bad sex
will not be forgotten, washed off,
or creamed over. It will appear as is,
a wide red stripe across my left cheek.
Tomorrow when the rent is due
and the money has gone to the butcher,
the baker, the car loan maker,
my face and I will again wear
the band of our defeat, wide white
stripe of strife crossways on the right cheek.
My face and I, of sound mind and body,
will leave nothing but teeth and company
as we head out cross country
in search of the thumb that left its print
on the broad wide expanse between our eyes.
We never agreed to give anything up,
relinquish, renew or renounce.
We refuse to give up.
Tongue, with your wafer
you stay back, guard the abandoned
No more masks. Last night’s battle
royale over budgets, bathtimes, bad sex
will not be forgotten, washed off,
or creamed over. It will appear as is,
a wide red stripe across my left cheek.
Tomorrow when the rent is due
and the money has gone to the butcher,
the baker, the car loan maker,
my face and I will again wear
the band of our defeat, wide white
stripe of strife crossways on the right cheek.
My face and I, of sound mind and body,
will leave nothing but teeth and company
as we head out cross country
in search of the thumb that left its print
on the broad wide expanse between our eyes.
We never agreed to give anything up,
relinquish, renew or renounce.
We refuse to give up.
Tongue, with your wafer
you stay back, guard the abandoned
ears with your body, your life.
Without my face I am nothing
but another pretty fact,
a blonde that heads will turn
for, if only to pluck out the eyes
left behind, tendons wrapped around
each stringy, dyed tendril.
My face and I are ashes.
Our mask is plastic smoke
polluting your air. Bless you.
Without my face I am nothing
but another pretty fact,
a blonde that heads will turn
for, if only to pluck out the eyes
left behind, tendons wrapped around
each stringy, dyed tendril.
My face and I are ashes.
Our mask is plastic smoke
polluting your air. Bless you.
posted by jillypoet @ 11:24 AM
2 Comments:
you ask, what is it about? i almost don't care because the images are so nice! since you asked, and I feel pressure and i need to please people ... :) it's obviously about our true selves and the masks we wear but i was confused about which was which. if that's the intent--what is real, anyway?--then it worked! if not, then maybe there's a way, as you contrast the two, to make it clearer who's who.
p.s. and congrats on writing so frequently!
Hello, new recruit to NUNS !
I love oyur poem :)
Aisha Member of NUNS
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