I went to the mirror
but the mirror was bare,
looked for my mouth
but my mouth wasn’t there.
Over the lips had grown
a whiskered hymen of skin.
I went to the window
wanting to shout
I pictured the words
but nothing came out.
The face beneath the nose
an empty hoarding.
And as I waited, I could feel
flesh filling in the space behind.
Teeth melted away tasting of snow
as the stalactites of the palate
joined the stalagmites below.
The tongue, like a salted snail,
sweated and shrivelled.
The doctor has suggested plastic surgery:
a neat incision, cosmetic dentistry
and full red lips (factory fresh).
He meant well but I declined.
After all, there are advantages.
At last I have given up smoking,
and though food is a needle
twice a day, it needs no cooking.
There is little that I miss.
I never could whistle and there’s no one to kiss.
In the street, people pass by
unconcerned. I give no one directions
and in return am given none.
When asked if I am happy
I look the inquisitor straight in the eye
and think to myself… (”