Portraiture

See how what is being drawn out is no longer yours:
you asked me for this. You,
looking at your own face with disgust.
You, who never sought to see
the arduous necessities of catching light
by surprise; an artist is made
to learn these things. An artist’s hands are so used
to aching, eyes
knowing that the hardest thing to see
is what’s in front of you. What the mind chooses to ignore

the face is sure to keep with it –
a thousand captured folds telling a story
each time – creased on its pages;
how your smile is lopsided, or sometimes trying
too hard. Do you see
how there is a slightly hairless patch
of skin where your lover used to kiss; do you see
how you have aged the way you have,
your face, tinged
with something that was once beautiful?

I would have shown you the playfulness
of shadows on your face, the remaining luster
in your old eyes would have shone, your lips still
giving its best efforts to smile.
But before I had the chance, already
I am rendered a liar,
paid to make you into something pretty
as though it were that easy to impart grace.