The Tightening

The pharmacy window is a dark, glass wall

where I see a face I didn't invite to stay.

I’m holding my jaw like I’m waiting for a fall,

in that sharp, thin-lipped, catastrophic way.

I’m checking the date on the ibuprofen cap

under lights that make my skin look like dough.

My fingernail gives a steady, rhythmic tap,

a sound she used when she wanted to go.

It’s a twitch of the hinge, a hardening line

that appeared while I wasn't paying much heed.

The genes are a debt I didn't sign,

coming for the only face I’ll ever need.