The real truth is that some of us don’t have
facial recognition, unable to recall
the goblet of a face. Then, we think of rain
falling so sparsely from the gutters that
we wonder if it is rain, especially if the face
is bunched with three pointed leaves
skimming across a pond. The attempt
to recognize begins with the quick look
across the cheekbones, so muddied
with a dirt caramel and studded goldfish
color, like this woman who stands in front
of a window casement chalk cradle white.
Then we identify the strip of the nose,
the soft mouth summing up a sound,
but it’s useless. We have no ability to
even make a forensic analysis
of her face, much less her cauterized eyebrow.
Her face is plaited with leaves and petals;
there’s even a third eye off in its placement—
but, still, all these clues and she’s still unrecalled.
What’s worse, there’s a bird-sniffing
revenant, or ghost, or maybe just her own
shadow behind her, leavening its reclusive
smoky compost. I look at her, and think
if a stranger looked at my face, as I am
glossing over hers, would they see
the morning birds that I listen for each a.m.,
how I look for anything turning over
even in a pallid wind,
or how my body stands in silence at
the bathroom window where I can
get a better view of wind tailings: especially
the dark sharp-shinned hawk,
eyeing the casement that I linger by,
wanting out of the rainfall.
I move to the side, hoping
the crush of leaves will disguise my looking.
It sidles up, giving me another way
to look at a face, my face, wanting.
When I first saw the hawk’s loose-filled
feathers, I thought I saw my own self.
Keep looking, I want to tell her.
Keep deciphering, the face will become
clearer, and the image will return to you.
Just say hello.