The barista’s acne is torrential—
A perfect storm. Whatever potential
She has for beauty has been obscured
By the open wounds that resemble burns.
And yet, as I look closer, I can see
This young woman is quite pretty
Behind her mask. Her eyes are turquoise,
Not some common blue, and her alto voice
Belongs onstage or in the studio.
She makes my coffee and I want to know
Why, in this new age of dermatology,
She suffers this morbid case of acne.
Has she seen the infomercials about creams
And soaps that will make any face clean?
Where doctors and rock stars share laughter
At photos that show the before and after,
And if you want the cure, call this number?
This scarred woman forces me to remember
That my skin was nearly as pocked and razed.
I once counted forty-four zits on my face,
But I was rez-poor and health care was shitty.
I didn’t live in a first world city,
So why does this woman look like this?
She’s uninsured and untreated, I guess,
Like so many others, but her poverty
Has brutally tattooed her. I’m sorry,
But there’s nothing comforting I can say
To a Hester painted with a different “A.”
But, hell, maybe this woman would just scorn
My pretentious allusion to Hawthorne.
She might be an everyday sort of brave,
And possess no want or need to be saved,
Examined, and pitied by the likes of me,
A poet who pays, over tips, and flees.
But then I pause at the door and look back
To see the woman use a fingernail to attack
Her skin. She digs and digs at what wounds her,
Seeking clarity, but nothing will soothe her.
Estranged from the tribe that gives no protection,
What happens to the soul that hates its reflection?
—from Rattle #30, Winter 2008
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