Photo
after photo
after photo
after photo

of the face
that is no more
a face

a dizzyingly long exam
with lens and scalpel
at a bloodied wounded knee

so I gorge myself (as the
poet once wrote) at the feast
of bone and muscle and skin.

But can I help it?

It's rooted in my blood
comes from my dad and his
dad yet is not what he
in his loving kindness
that dear dad in often
rosy dreams saw mapped out
for his darling.

Talent or aptitude?
A case, rather, typical
of a blessing
changing into curse.

Translation: 2010, Gregory Ball