Applying the face
Near god, near good.
Proscenium in shades
of aristocratic veins.
Vacant rotunda. Oil drops
spun wide by light, bared
before the vanity. Pearly wigs
and spackle leave expressions
Changed, wavened, eyes caved.
Lips wine and curl to reveal
fangs, tusks. Growing up, up.
The stranger-seeking gaze.
Mirror, mirror, assemble
yourself, contrive. Look:
a stage. Look alive.
Gingham was the sky
A colour you don’t know is blue until you lose
a tooth or
an eye
Nor that colours change
with moods—a surging purple
marble foretelling ardour plum with a sweet
dense bruise. And amber
your anger. Uranium your want. A bleed
between your angry want.
The vibrant architect, possibility,
going. The road leading home had always
been gold, the city jewelled. Your shoes
were new, true, and they suited you.
Poppies bloomed, black yolk, sunny-
side up, souring sleep. And you rose with the snow
intending to speak of the threshold,
the electric beyond
in a farewell note.
But it was the facts that bore
fruit. When you spoke it was of technicians
mistakes
the director’s lead hand
lead paint
insanity’s dance
the woman burned in her wickedness
(not
escape/
escape/
escape)
You could say
you’d changed
and how
and exactly
in what way.
Jessie Jones is the author of one poetry collection, The Fool, which was published in 2020 with icehouse poetry, and was shortlisted for the Raymond Souster Award and a finalist for the A.M. Klein Prize for Poetry. She grew up in the prairies and now lives in Montreal.
