When I died, I went on
held my breasts, one in each hand & then tore
them off like clouds of bread. I saw my face
inside of my face. I could reach to it through
the shapes that weren’t my face. I didn’t have to
face this face anymore. Everyone from college has changed their name, clipped
the syllables like a bitten nail. They’ve adjusted their faces
in some cases so slightly there’s no trace of the face I kissed.
when a doctor says don’t look, I know he is still looking at this face & not the face
I carved out. When my wife kisses me, she creates my face.
Em Robidoux is queer writer currently relocating to Providence, RI after recent completion of their MFA in poetry at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Through their work they seek to explore the plains of grief, humor, and bodily pleasure. Their poems have appeared in Palette Poetry, Press 53, as well as twice in Glass Poetry.
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