Beth Gylys

Faces

I have loved so badly, there are holes
where there should be pillows.
I travel widely and regularly
to avoid getting stuck. My disguises
are expert—no paper mache,
no Elmers. Peek behind the mask
to find another mask, another.
If you put your hands into the divots,
they will emerge black-sticky—
they will smell of something dead.
Irreconcilable, my legs go numb
with nowhere to stand.  If I stare
down into where I’ve been down
I never stop falling. So I don’t.

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Beth Gylys is an award-winning poet and professor of creative writing at Georgia State University. Her 4th collection of poetry, Body Braille, was recently released by Iris Press. Her other books include Sky Blue Enough to Drink, Spot in the Dark, and Bodies that Hum; she has also published two chapbooks, Matchbook and Balloon Heart. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Barrow Street, Paris Review, Verse Daily and many other journals and anthologies.