In Praise of My Unmadeup Face

after Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s “In Praise of My Manicure”

Because I was taught all my life to look flawless,

I wanted cheeks that pinkened, lips that puckered

and glistened, eyelashes men would notice,

and immaculate, unspoiled skin.

Those nuisance freckles would vanish,

all pimples nonexistent, this façade given life

beyond a foundation’s catchy name.

And so flawlessness I painted

with the help of concealer, blush, eyeshadow,

mascara and lip gloss. Was it fun for a while?

Of course. It was the closest I ever thought I’d be

to a movie star, a chameleon whose eyelids could morph

from heather gray to peacock green, 

whose kiss could be poppy red one day 

and summer berry the next.

Until, that is, it became clear how the grooming

and costuming made my face stickier

and heavier on humid days,

made the blemishes hidden underneath

erupt more often, made me aware that somewhere

beneath the paint and powder,

something more natural, more genuine,

was waiting to show itself.

I tell you, from now on, I will hold that version

of my countenance up to the sun—

no more shame in this appearance,

no shrinking back from exposure.

And if this fresh face scares you,

I will shape my mouth into a smile,

the only one I have and love, sliding into place

like that one thousandth puzzle piece.

See that radiance, that golden lamplight

looking back at you? A standard street light bulb

lasts about 50,000 hours. This one,

now that I’ve captured it, will never go out.