I think maybe I want to keep them,
These weepy red constellations of chin and cheek.
But my grandfather has already retouched them out,
Airbrushed the skin flat and smooth.
He says I will want to remember my face the way it will be,
That in a year my constellations will smooth to stratus cloud,
But my older brother still gets the facewash that bleaches towels
And my mother talks about the bump she found in her ear,
Red, greasy, ugly,
Real, alive