|Fight Club 1 by Milos Milosevic|
Ugly zigzag lines
slide down the glass like mercury,
a recurring wave
that stumbles the sound of confidence.
Flares fly off wherever skin is visible,
May as well point out horror with a cue stick.
And the mirror being cruelly convex,
a face bulges toward its source.
Promised some grafting,
you’re restless as the raindrops on the pane,
longing to be have it done
no matter the cost, the consequence.
Without new cheeks, new chin, new brow,
there is no tenderness, no amusement, just regret.
A mirror cannot keep a secret.
This is the face that belies description.
It looks much better in dreams.
This view, even in the waning light,
can’t protect you going forward.
It is a life with visible scars.
It has no dimension other than
what someone did to you
or what you did to yourself.
There is no honor
in any attempt to conceal it.
And indifference is a lie.
You are scarred for life.
You are scarred for living.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.