Behind
This Pockmarked Face
By Oscar S. Cisneros
It feels just as course as it looks. Stubble bristles
silver and black, my chin is as broad as your palm and
all of it has the feel of unpolished stone, gritty with
the daily nicks and cuts of life. Even the tenderness
of my lips is marred by a deep scar on one side. So it
is no surprise that with these unflinching eyes this course
countenance seems opaque and aloof. I want you to know
what I'm feeling behind this pockmarked face.
Sometimes we sit across the table from one another in
silence, that blissful silence that intimate couples share,
and I stare at you. Other times we are engaged in conversation
on the many levels that we so casually shift to: you are
telling me about your day, you are telling me about the
latest outrage in politics, you are entrusting me with
tales of your childhood, your thoughts, your fears, your
dreams. And I am trying to listen. I am trying to pay
attention. But there are moments when the room begins
to fall away, when the hubbub of nearby strangers is muted
and even your own words seem but a whisper and all I see
is the movement of your lips the brightness of eyes and
I am lost in this dream where I can't believe that you
are you in all the ways that you are. All I can do is
nod. All I can do is agree because I am just waiting for
a moment when I can express this desire to you. What kiss
would end this thirst? How can I pull you as near to me
as I want you to be? That is what I'm thinking.
Cold and callous says the mask I was born with, but I
feel something different. That is my reality, that simmering
beneath this leathery veil of skin and bones and jaw and
cheeks is something I want to share with you, something
this pockmarked face conceals too well. But I have a solution
to this disconnect, a way to end this space between us:
Touch my face and I will show you exactly how I feel.
