Borrowed Face

The timer counts in green and glow.

The kitchen light is turned down low.

I look into the microwave door

and see a man I’ve seen before.

It isn't me, or how I feel.

The toaster bends the light to steal

a jawline from a family ghost.

The uncle that I hated most.

I stand and wait for bread to pop.

The heavy ticking will not stop.

I stare at features not my own,

cut from a deep and different bone.