Mask by Henri Cole

Mask

I tied a paper mask onto my face,

my lips almost inside its small red mouth.

Turning my head to the left, to the right,

I looked like someone I once knew, or was,

with straight white teeth and boyish bangs.

My ordinary life had come so far as it would,

like a silver arrow hitting cypress.

Know your place or you’ll rue it, I sighed

to the mirror. To succeed, I’d done things

I hated; to be loved, I’d competed promiscuously:

my essence seemed to boil down to only this.

Then I saw my own hazel irises float up,

like eggs clinging to water plant,

seamless and clear, in an empty pondlike face.