Mask by Beth Bachmann

Mask 

During our self-isolation, you send me collages

of God’s blown animals, breathed into, heated

 

and shaped like glass. Our skin is full of holes

for oil and sweat. When I whisper, Breathe me in,

 

I mean all of me—the scent of my flesh, but also me,

my god, the beginning of the fulfillment of this desire.

 

In a mask, you can be whoever I want you to be, king

or dog: muse comes from muzzle, to track your kill.

 

The plague doctors wore masks in the shape of a bird,

the beak filled with fresh clippings: juniper, rose, clove.

 

The mask is a type of respirator, meaning breathe again,

which is how we’ve managed to stay alive all these years.

 

Through the glass eyes, they could examine the body

they could not touch with their bare hands.

 

Breath can be both instinctive and controlled.

Matisse’s most famous cutout is “Blue Nude II,”

 

a woman who appears to be made of parts, but who

was scissored instead from a single sheet of paper.