Face in the Glass
You’re at the mirror over the sink. A practical detail—the familiar wisp of hair on the brow, say— calls to be tamed, and you slip into a way of seeing the furrows, bony ridges, cartilaginous lobes of flesh, as a remote waste, a wilderness in time’s drift, strange. You’re a scientist tracing a sphinx’s physiognomy against the fluorescent-tinged expanse— never seen anything like this… till the phone rings, or your companion (with whom you’ve slept since before you first felt old) calls though the door, the spell breaks, and it’s your own face in the glass another morning, this is your place, and as much as you sense (a ripple through your flesh) what’s left in that cold reflective land as the light softens, you feel blessed to remember your name, the comb in your hand.
Jed Myers is a Philadelphian living in Seattle. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Nimrod International Journal, Golden Handcuffs Review, Atlanta Review, The Quotable, Jabberwock Review, Crab Creek Review, the Journal of the American Medical Association, the Rose Alley Press anthology Many Trails to the Summit, and elsewhere. He’s received several recent awards, among them the 2012 Mary C. Mohr Editors’ Award from Southern Indiana Review, and Honorable Mention for the Norton Girault Literary Prize from Barely South Review.