Sharks Eat My Face
Poem
Long before I had a face,
muck and rot I uprooted from my root,
sloughed scales from my branches,
rubbed the yellow off my sepals and petals.
Through swamps and marshes,
cliffs and reefs,
I glided, loped, skipped —
melted edges off ridges steep,
withered acid from lichen and peat.
When rivers raced into the sea,
minnows and trout grew a snout —
gave me a face and I gave it a name.
Sharks, sharks —
now swim under my nose.
Each leap lands a bite on my lip,
they tell me lies,
eat my nose and eyes.
Long before I had a face,
I could smell my wounds —
put ointment on decay.
I grew a face for a day,
in the shark’s eye, saw my reflection,
lost my senses and my way.
Don’t you sometimes mourn childhood wonder? At least some of it is still attached to us, but much of it has been lost.
