Behold, Your Body

We’ve been there before.  Nearly every morning, looking
into the mirror after a shower at a face that couldn’t be ours.  
The lumpy neck.  Not ours.  The ears
like poached eggs.  Not ours.  The hairs everywhere
and a brow that extends like cement
above the fluted pillar of the nose,
the collapsing cheekbones.

Not ours.  Please,
let these not be ours.

But they are.  And mornings like these we close our eyes
and walk away to work in we-don’t-care-what-kind
of clothes.  Anything that covers.  
A tent.  A hot air balloon.
The red sheet we slept in.

But don’t.  Don’t.  
For the Mother of gods and goblins, don’t.
Let us band together and not walk away from ourselves.
Let us not be ashamed.  Let us close our ears
rather than our eyes.  Let us write in red lipstick
on the mirror, “it is not what we behold, but the guts to behold
that makes us beautiful.”

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