Him
Hardtack and dry bread crusts glare
From all the year-mountains and day-canyons,.
Detritus of a life that cobble together a face—
Him.
A model for protoplasm are his eyes,
Coded not simply for color, but for hiding and revealing.
Shaped by slaps and daddy-belt lashings,
Both as receiver and as bestower.
The arch of brow over the cave of unshed tears.
Scraped out cheeks, nude of beard, grizzled Keystone moustache .
Subducted chin and pendant jowl.
A life inscribed in wrinkles, there for the reading.
Who will translate?
Suzana Writes 
A life inscribed in wrinkles… Why is it that the ancient ones are the most fragile and yet most unbroken in the broken places? This poem reminds me so much of my dad that I weep and smile at the same time.
LikeLike
Again, you bring me to tears. Thank you!
LikeLike