When I don’t understand what I’m feeling,
I check in the mirror,
to see if it’s all in place.
All resting there,
prominent
in the crevices of my face.
Usually it’s present,
there in my features,
long before I can make out,
it’s meaning in logical sequence.
It’s painted there ever so clearly,
in my natural make-up,
for that day or evening.
No choice or warning,
of when this desired spurs a meeting,
it calls without greeting.
Draped over my features,
I see its face, contorting my own,
making a temporary home.
Massaging it out,
I smooth the creases,
willing myself out
of its suffocating reaches.
Hay's Corner 