the woman in the bucolic skirt says “draw 4 faces”
(i pull at my hair)
the 4 faces i find are ladies:
the first is static, statuesque
her face twists away from me in chalky charcoal
i forget to give her ear-holes
lungs dusty with bronchitis and
more to forget than she can remember
the second is stiff like catatonia
watercolors bleeding through the thin wilted page
she’s too boxy, and sad, and shiny, and pale
the third is haunted
gray pencil smeared with oily pastels
purplish-brown and sweaty yellow
the whites of her eyes are muddy
hair hollow
traction alopecia, saudade dysthymia
the fourth is ladylike
pencil on paper. proportional. unadorned.
the fifth face is mine
pinned to the wall with the other faces
adorned with chemtrails under the eyes
they split my likeness in two
utilitarian and biblical under my state college’s
hot studio lights