The eyes wear a mask. As does the mouth. Many a closing flap. To keep in and let out. A mask for the mask of lips. A mask to hide the shapes of hips. A mask with laces and rubber soles and leather to cover the leather we swing like levers to power this whole mess on.
The worry isn’t the ask to mask, it’s how they told you to. To do it. Breathe through it. Lose hope. Renew it. Take it in stride, how much there is to hide, if you want to be accepted. But do you?
Human not humane. Can a mask be worn on a name? Is it a guilty face that’s to blame, is that why we wear our shame? Though the hands do the deeds of love, they call their masks gloves, and it hides from whatever you touch, and no one ever called one tyranny.
But a mask to filter your breath, shouting give me liberty or death, like they’re not the same damned thing.
Trees like still-frames of fireworks. Palm leaves off golden white. Pink pom-poms on ends of sulfurous smelling stems. Lone doves on frowning powerlines. Trucks with cracked windshields in teacher’s parking lots. Surgical masks rotting in the gutter. Rocks and robins and cracked orange clay in places grass won’t grow.
We were six weeks in outside for a mask-break and I could not recognize them. They all had different faces than I ever could have imagined. It’s the damnedest thing. I’d known them for weeks. Yet I had never seen their smile.
We loitered on green grass until the birds grew bored of us. I didn’t like it. I wanted to tell them they had their faces wrong. Before I could, thank God, they’d stuffed them back under masks sighing to their self. Smelling their own breath. Confidential grin.
Spied on by the birds and the trees who have waited a long time patiently eagerly for all of us to take a mask-break and step out to breathe.
It’s not too hot until strangers in parking lots feel comfortable saying it. Summer happened a long time ago when all the kids were let out of school this Spring. In just about a week, we can all shake our heads at the checkout counter while we admonish the weather, until then, hold your breath like you were underwater to keep from clearing your throat in public. Wearing a mask makes cleavage of the eyes. Can’t help but tantalize. Icebergs only peek. Powder blue cream filled and witch hazel green, little black curled up spider legs trace a soft pink veined lemon wedge squinting sourly. Is it redundant, to ornately describe the look of eyes?
Sweat beads down the sides. Long bang cuts across one like a scythe slicing hay for strangers who respond hello. Deep brown like chocolate pudding with a semisweet pupil dotting the center. Do I want to eat these people’s eyes? A superhero. A test answer. A victim in a crime report. When you lack the guts to ask, you mask. You leave it to eyes. What do your silent, light absorbent orbs say about you? Of all the colors of the world, which do they offer back above the mask confessing your true feelings about the view you’re facing. How long has it been since you really smelled the words you were saying. We’re not as sure of what you said as you are of what you had for lunch with onions on it. Without the nose, with buried cheeks and hidden chin, our eyes take over for the entire face and apologize to the world they waste as they search only for their favorite colors. Gray lumps of unwashed wool. Teal waves off southern oceans spill tears down peachy lids of grainy sand. And black. The favorite color of anyone who can’t pick one. They’re all there huddled around a smoky fire in that deep and penetrating night. And wood fire red brown. And pauper pupils wearing corneas like golden crowns. Dull silver throwing sparks growing sharp. Furrowed down.
So we’re all supposed to be superheroes now. Secret identities. Private public lives and public private ones we post online. Can’t shake hands, but can roll eyes. Can’t bitch about the weather, except that the sun has his mask off and he’s breathing all over all of us. We want to ask where’s the rain, but we don’t know who we’re talking to, they did get a thunderstorm two towns over. Can’t even suffer drought the same any more. Can’t stand the taste of my own words. And without the rest of the face in the way, my eyes keep giving away my secrets. All I see anymore is people’s true colors. All I hear is what eyes have to say, and buddy, it puts mouths to shame.
Who is that behind that mask. Where did the sun go when it rained.