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What Do You See in My Face?

Jeanine Walker | Poetry

I don’t know the names of trees.
I never know. I’ve never known.
It’s a burden to know
and another burden to not know.

He says don’t attack her.
It’s a dog he’s speaking to, about me.
Another person stares. I have no being
here. I am old. Are they checking

to see if I look old? “Perfect,”
he says on the video call,
touching index finger to thumb
in that universal gesture. “I’m sure.”

I go home. The air softens.
Someone stares at me here: me:
it’s my face. I continue to be
bewildered. I continue to sing.