A SPLIT LIP

It’s only recently I started to ask myself

the reasons why my upper lip is split –

initially just a narrow, shallow slit but left alone

to care for itself and so to slowly stretch and grow.

 

I don’t pretend to be one of those who claim

the right to tease for human frailties.

I too may look too long in a mirror and do not mock

others for asking some trusted friend whether

such and such a garment somehow distorts

their quintessential shape. I am no hair shirt,

nor prim and proper seamstress of ill-shaped skirts.

 

And yet I ignore this minor blemish; think it

seems okay to leave it overnight and then,

first thing in the morning, to wash the dried blood

from my lip, and to keep it moist throughout the day –

lest an unguarded smile or a teenage picking at

dry, dying skin cause a tear; and that sick-sweet taste

of my scarlet-fresh flow spawn a mutinous spasm

all down my back then down to my toes.

 

Whatever the cause, my split looks like it’s

here for the duration. I am not aware of any

lexicon of lips but remain willing to formulate

reasons, both physical and creatures of the mind.

A pain is not always painful; it might include some

small seed which gives rise to an edifice of

anxiety, a link never to be denied or replaced

by a less cruel connection.

 

And so my lip quivers just a little, a short shiver

of recognition of this imperfection that presents

inoffensively to onlookers; yet is for me

a daily reminder from which I may never recover:

that my lips seem no longer to interest my lover.