“I earned these lines; don’t you dare
erase one of them!”—Anna Magnani,
upon learning that a publicity photo
of her had been airbrushed.
In the morning
I look at you
as you sleep.
You are so you:
the fresh sweet student
I first saw
fifty years ago
in the college cafe.
And then I go
to the mirror
and wonder
whose sagging
wrinkled face
is that?
All those lines
must have
sneaked in
over night:
a cosmic
cosmetic joke.
Wait: there’s one
near the corner
of the eye—
I had one just like that
years ago;
I couldn’t help it:
blamed it on laughing.
Then you come into the
bathroom behind me
look over my shoulder
breathe onto my neck.
You I recognize.
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