Sorting through old scans of saved photographs
to see if my teeth will end up exact copies
of my father's. He had his wisdom teeth removed
I think? On his own dental plan. Did he have them done
before his 31st birthday? Maybe not. Never came up.
I may keep my hair. Maybe not.
Murderers row. My mustache is growing
up in to my nostrils. Stop doing that! Stick scissor tip
inside to clip. Blunt. Pick! Rip! Red drip follicle
dangle mirror twitch. What are you doing up there?
Make me sneeze. Papertowel, teary eyed. Faucet, hot
then cold.
The photos are of a person I wish I could
know, until they are not. Ember dies in a can's lid.
Breath in again. Have not slept right since
that bubble popped.
Why not acknowledge imperfection? Embrace him?
Fly a flag against the wind? To what end?
I will never understand,
though corneas dry at room temperature,
eyelids strain,
and rain dots cheek
for peering into memory's river banks.
