Face

There's comfort in the brush,
smoothing strands to a sheen,
relief in the gentle tug,
over and over
at the top of my head.

"Such a pretty little girl,"
Mother would coo, years ago,
brushing soft till I was old enough.
(Oh, to be a child again...)
Ninety-eight, ninety-nine,

aaand, done. They all tell me
I favor her, but it's his eyes
that return my gaze
through the glass.
Or is it the light, not quite right?

Now let's brush powder into cheekbones,
brush dust into shadow and aura.
Rembrandt of Revlon,
the glass is my canvas.
God... is it a masterpiece?

Are those wrinkles on my lids?
How long until, until...
I found a gray hair last week.
(Oh, to be a child again...)
I shuddered as I flushed it down.

Enough. Now I'll define the eyes,
set the stars in their skies.
The lashes, the lines, brush
and color be my form as
I eye the eyes to shape.

The thing's assembled, see it breathe,
more real than the ghost within.
(Oh, to be a child again...)
I reflect on the deep surface,
the abyss that stares back.

How I wish it was perfect!
How I hope that it's good... love.
Oh, is that the time?
Nearly late, I rush out to present
my face, my truth.