Even while she is singing,
her mask comes off—the cheeks,
the brow, the lips still moving
even after they’ve been discarded
on the tray beside the brown hair.
Beneath that face, another face.
Its lips sing the same quiet song.
The mirror is not surprised.
Into the new face, the scalpel slips
and the next layer pulls away.
Eyebrows, nose bridge, chin, jaw.
And the lips keep singing
as they away they fall.
The woman is no less herself.
She is not who she thought
she was. She is being sung.
The mirror lets slip
the passing layers.
It’s interesting how the “she” disappears for the middle part of the poem, the disembodied figure speaking for itself. I don’t know if that’s a conscious decision, but it’s the right one:)
“She is being sung” — perfect. Don’t know if you’ve read billy Collins, Purity, but your poem reminded me of that one, in some ways, as song is to writing…
Once again, I feel Yeats’ closing lines to “Among School Children” is evoked:
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
To be written, rather than writing; sung, rather than singing; danced, rather than dancing:
The woman is no less herself./She is not who she thought//she was.
And so we are.