My face is a map, a wild country
laid out before you, where jagged hills
cry out for rain, air too thin to support
the exuberance of summer insects.
My hemispheres veiled
by stagnant clouds that eternally metamorphose
into hiding panthers, and striking snakes,
where roads weave and wander over an invisible grid
leading us off the edges.
Seven horses of different colours float in tall grass
grouped in an open circle.
A hazy sun burns off the morning dew,
it anaesthetises our dreams
as it evaporates,
horses waiting silently for our day to unfold.
Could my orchards yet call you to pray
over the perfect taste of a tart apple,
seeds deep and dark?
Could my billowing wheat fields convey
their sea-like happiness to you
and a multitude of blackbirds?
How you might wish it were the face of another
beneath your hands, how you might
greet this other face with a smile
that could blind the sun
and soothe the stars.
Yet, it is only mine, and searching carefully
you might find a vein of blue jade
running hidden. Jade you could sculpt, carve
into a precious mask.
Wearing the new face,
would it be enough?