What Face? by Allison Grayhurst

 

 

A moody afterglow – the error of thoughts, hopeless

when it comes to laughter and the power of worship.

On the table, there are self-deeds, failed

revelations, kneading and prying wide a soul

that doesn’t want to be recognized. I want you

to allow me this success, to find the flavour of your eyes,

shape them with tools and my thumbs, to press the flat

hard edges of my palms against your cheekbones, press and

form the cause of your pride, your loneliness that seems so

important to maintain. Curled toes and chins, your chin

is becoming, shifting from strong to soft. You are neither

masculine or feminine. You are privileged – to be so

beautiful and uncommitted to a single way of looking. Look.

Your hair – long or cut off? In real life, there is no

perfect symmetry. You are bold, accurate –

your nose and the lines around your mouth is my contemplation.

Let me know you. Be courageous.

Let me pry, split and mould your inner

workings until it is clear (for both of us)

as love.

 

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