ask my love if she would still love me if I only had half a face.
No, she says.
I stand behind the door jamb exposing half
You have to picture it—half would
be sheer skin, same complexion, and the other half would have one eye,
half a nose and mouth.
You're being disgusting, she says, and advances
her pegs on the board.
And to review, she says, I wouldn't love
you if your fingers had no knuckles; if you'd been born with one foot
backwards—I won't feel sorry for you because you're losing.
I'm not looking for pity! I want to know,
seriously now, would you still love me if I only had half a face?
That's not funny, she says. For some people
it's probably an everyday reality.
How shallow you are! I cry and return to
A dowel snaps and I fall to the floor.
Fatty, she says, shuffling the deck, I wouldn't
even be your friend.
I am currently in 'time-out' until I
learn to play nicely with the other children.