deathmask
by Mike Allen

This morning, I choose blindness.
The face I pull on has no holes for eyes.
Many times before I've worn
this mask of flesh; it's ragged now,
calloused and raw against my fingertips.
I stroke the stitches at my temples.
threads that give this skin its shape;

The mirror I can't see chides me:

You've left too much bone exposed.
At least fix your forehead where
it sags loose.
                              The mirror groans:
Why this face again, all purple-bruised?
Why not the Green Woman
with leaves for cheeks and blooms for eyes?
Why not the cold white oval
that makes you such an elegant ghost?
Why not the Laughing Owl
or Coy-Eyed Cat? Why always
must you pick the most difficult way?
You'll stumble through the castle halls,
one hand always in the dust beneath
the portraits, sure to frighten off
any escort who might offer aid.

But this one's soft as silk, I say.
It feels best. It hurts least.