A Face

She told me that I wore my face well.

It didn’t seem a romantic overture, but I began to wonder

Whether someone else might wear it better.  Could prurient

Hands uncover the truth – that my face is ill-fitting, too tight

Around the nose, loose around the ears and eyes?

Perhaps it does not flatter my soul.

It may be an imposter, my face.  Draped across my mind

And heart, it pantomimes love, laughter, and beauty, never

Quite telling the truth, no matter how it tries.

Yes, I wear my face as well as I can, you see.

Because it is only polite

To wear a face.  They wouldn’t have me naked, telling

Them all what fools they’ve been, wearing their faces so. 

And we all do not wear them well.  Faces too big or too small,

Too morose or melancholy do their wearers an injustice.

She told me that my face was fashionable,

For the time being, anyhow.  As though I had chosen it,

Picked it from among my faces that morning.  But I did

Not choose.  Perhaps my face, reflected in hers, 

showed only how well she wore her own.