I do not know how to smile.
Can you tell from this?
All things indicate I cannot smile,
not just the photos in which I grimace—
this poem makes it clear, too. And when
no one is watching I may laugh—
but a grimace is all I can manage
when I need to smile;
I hate my face in a photograph.
I looked downwards once in a selfie
with my face in sleepy repose;
my face appeared smoothed out.
I didn’t try to smile.
I can tolerate one of those.
At a Halloween party
a young girl smiled perfectly
for a picture and I smiled within to see it,
but it hurt me.
How does one do it? Smile?
A lady dressed as a witch with a green face
looked wonderful, people were photographed
with her and she had a great smile. Everyone
can smile but me.
Am I melancholy and profound?
Do I hate my face? Is there a face
somewhere I would love
if it didn’t make a sound?