Every morning I put on the face
in the mirror, not the one
my lover sees when she rises
and I am on the edge of a dream:
that face filled with need, addicted
to wanting love, like a voice
yelling from the edge of a cliff
terrified hoping to hear an echo.
I brush the hair from my eyes
to illuminate unformed mass -- turn
the faucet handle -- fill the sink --
before I carve my face
with each glide of the blade
across my cheek, the razor drags
from tired skin another layer
of concession in the forming
of my face; the tap of the razor
on porcelain releases last evening
deforming the voice: what remains is
digested by the mirror, edited down
to a smile in the right light;
the weight the reflection carries
makes the face underneath fragile
and craving shade in the morning.
The mirror does not want the face
to evolve, even slightly, jealously
afraid of the words that it had
fended off; the quiet doubting
inaffirmation is a strange avatar,
a worn path's held space: the real story
is told in seconds when the mask
slips; tightening lips, the corner
of an eye that darts or the nose
that wrinkles. I want to tell
the face it can rest, call down
a strange angel to give voice
to a parched throat, to say it is okay
if no one recognizes this face
as it walks by other faces put on
at other mirrors above other sinks.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 4:44 PM UTC
Every morning I put on the face
in the mirror, not the one
my lover sees when she rises
and I am on the edge of a dream:
that face filled with need, addicted
to wanting love, like a voice
yelling from the edge of a cliff
terrified hoping to hear an echo.
I brush the hair from my eyes
to illuminate unformed mass -- turn
the faucet handle -- fill the sink --
before I carve my face
with each glide of the blade
across my cheek, the razor drags
from tired skin another layer
of concession in the forming
of my face; the tap of the razor
on porcelain releases last evening
deforming the voice: what remains is
digested by the mirror, edited down
to a smile in the right light;
the weight the reflection carries
makes the face underneath fragile
and craving shade in the morning.
The mirror does not want the face
to evolve, even slightly, jealously
afraid of the words that it had
fended off; the quiet doubting
inaffirmation is a strange avatar,
a worn path's held space: the real story
is told in seconds when the mask
slips; tightening lips, the corner
of an eye that darts or the nose
that wrinkles. I want to tell
the face it can rest, call down
a strange angel to give voice
to a parched throat, to say it is okay
if no one recognizes this face
as it walks by other faces put on
at other mirrors above other sinks.
inaffirmation is the right word even if webster says it ain't
