As Winter Sets In
One morning while brushing your teeth,
a strange face in the mirror. Am I still in there?
you ask, No reply. This face: a field in need
of reseeding. A corsage your blind date
sat on. A tattered map fished from the glove
box of a vintage car. At this age, every day
a new face you can't renounce or forsake.
Your job (you were told this as a child when
Grandma came to stay, as she could be mean):
summon the grace to make this face welcome.
Amy Gerstler
Is This My Final Form?
Penguin 2025
