My face, gone.
I stumbled around since
I had no eyes, hoped it would return
like the dog I lost in fifth grade.
I made coffee and even drove to work.
No one said anything. Perhaps
my face had been erased for years,
maybe since I was born,
only I kept picturing it there.
Is this common? Without a face,
I couldn’t see others. Had I ever?
The sky, I presume, still appeared,
a stale gray the same as my good suit.
I used to say my,
what a pretty world this is,
cornflowers blue as my grandmother’s
church hat, asters poking red swords
in a bloated breeze. I may dream
a whole new self tonight–
it’s happened before. Selves
form and melt, ice on a puddle.