Poem: A Word From a Place Other Than Your Face*

*joy, an intoxicating pollen

my face, grown weary and weathered my eyes, grown beady they die, collect dust in their rims my skin, grown leathery to the touch, bumpy along the edges, hair gone missing but still my arms flail about and people recognize me love does not grow in the eyes, in the skin, in the face but in the place other than my face