Jon Hanson
I hate having scars
She says in the mirror
Not so much to me as
To the youth ghosting in her
That ebbs and flows
Like the sun to a rose
At once both warm
An idea unformed
My bed is broke
She says in the mirror
Not so much to me as
To the lines that whither
Under her tired eyes
Like clouds in the sky
Cirrostratus, Cirrocumulus, they hide,
But never learned how to cry
My hair’s a mess
She says in the mirror
Not so much to me as
To her leaden fingers
That ball up, trying to quell
As well as anything she does
Heed not your lips
Heed not your pain
Heed not the sun
Or the rain
They’re peculiar
Not unloved
Please show me your face
I’ll kiss your nose
And lean my forehead in
Pray walls erode
Grace etched skin
Grace curling in toes