Face to Face

The chin tilts in a what if
at the half-moon swell that
curves the jawline in the mirror
Wisdom has been pulled up by the roots
The enamel-hard world is no place to be an individual
Fit in, or else… Pretty planes of the face
are vanguard geometry. They afford the privilege
of wearing load-bearing beams lightly:
the bracing lines of the forehead, cheekbone and jaw
that frame peeping windows behind which
the soul sleeps secure
with the tinted glass of the senses filtering the world
Now, with one half of the face puffed out of shape,
thoughts rush into the fresh hollow
What destiny was deferred
by the chance lines charted on the face?
What life lies in wait for the topography to change?

No Pressure

On this mayfly May Friday sunlight is smudged turmeric on the windowsills. On a cutting board at the dining table I take a knife to the cucumbers. Curls of marble green peels to one side, I look up. Jesus stares down at me everywhere in this house from his mount on the walls. Third year into his third decade on this earth he had saved the world. No pressure, he says meeting my eyes over his last supper.

The question is: should I guard against the yeast of time leavening me into pliability?

Lately, or forever, the maw of censure in my words draws blood. Jolted by the tang of iron on my tongue the other day, I am now labouring to keep it on a leash. It has taken this long for awareness to dawn. The Self is a river I step into continually with searching feet. What will I find now? And now?

Home: where the tachycardic beat of my mother’s excitable speech on the ground floor thumps in my head on the first floor through two closed doors.

Presently, diced pale cucumbers chill with chopped green chillies and bloodred tomatoes in a bowl. The end of the first year of my third decade on this earth is staring me in the face. I have to save myself from the world. No pressure.