False faces
False faces,
they called them
when I was a child --
the masks we wore
for trick-or-treat.
I picture still
the piggy face,
my silky hair
appropriately,
in pigtails.
That was it;
that was my disguise.
If that was me,
that anthropomorphic thing,
I don't recall the choice --
choosing for myself
to be a happy little pig.
Perhaps I did,
but that's the thing
about memory --
it makes false faces
of the past.
I don't recall a voice
back then,
but that is not to say
I wouldn't, if asked today,
disguise myself
exactly that same way.
Karen
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Love this! We called them false faces when I was a girl too .......
ReplyDeleteYes, this resonates in its odd piggy way. Did I choose those events or were they forced on me? The false faces of memory is one true thing that makes me question, as I should question, the remembered perceptions of childhood. It's so easy to look back with blame, and I believe I must get past that, offering grace to what seems like shortcomings, offering forgiveness to the shades of the past held fast by the child in me. A very thoughtful poem, Karen, around a metaphor with depth.
ReplyDeleteAnd also, your comment about feeling jealous of my poem "Ghost Town, Mojave Desert" was a kind one, making my heart bloom a little even as I thought, But Karen, your poetry is gorgeous...
Those last two stanzas drive the point home; they take the narrative and blow it out into a whole new set of thoughts. Which is pretty awesome.
ReplyDelete(And very true, too. Stories I am dead certain of from my childhood, my parents have told very differently.)