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Pardon my appearance

Pardon my appearance

The following piece is paired with Michael Toti’s Interloper.


While I’m under destruction, paper
bag over my head marked with stains
that could indicate spoilage, or the greasy work of renovation
now in progress.
Onlookers want to look away—can’t
but gasp as my crone emerges, assembling herself
out of the shed skin of history.

I could be at my first wedding, stiff white flowers
sprouting from my head, smiling at the wrong
man. Or I could be at my second wedding, in a boat on the lake
with my one true 
fisherman, my submariner, alongside us a snapper 
raising its fist of a skull in joy through deep murk,
yellow perch in its jaws an auspice.

Three days after, the towers could have stood fast
instead of going down in flames. 
Under destruction. Floors peeling away.
Memos and memos 
flying for blocks. The war could have stopped in its tracks
for lack of weapons, embarrassed. Meanwhile,
near the dock, our boat still decked in flowers.

Who is talking now? The making or the unmaking?
Oh, the ways I have changed, the girl
growing out of me. My open casket
holds a stranger 
dressed for the prom, blank place for a face, 
a small engraved card reading, arrange your head
here. And I laugh. Is that a sin?

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