Poetry
Face Remnant
All the roads
rush to one
place within
my face it’s
the complexity
mountains and
other differentiated
celebrated scenic
icons equate when
they look back
and wait for
the birth of
something human
my face is not
a mountain
mission nor is
it a massively
apparent mole
hill my face
is not a missile
which will miss
any point it’s
trying to make
it’s not a wedge
of wood thick
as paper or a
pound of pavement
smooth as glass
it’s not the
ocean rippled
with realizations
nor is it the
essence of any
OK situation all
roads rushing it’s
what you see but
will not say
my face is the
remnant of a
disintegrated soul
a skin-covered
puzzle-hinged
mandible that once
belonged to an animal frame in
ungraved burial
Contributor
Jeremy SiglerJeremy Sigler is a poet, critic and teacher living in Brooklyn, New York. His long-awaited analysis of the poetry of Carl Andre is forthcoming from Sternberg Press.
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