Change as Cartography

by Dominic Cuthbert

My face is changing.
I feel it when pressing fingertips
Into my cheekbones
And where my bottom jaw
Meets the twice pierced ear.
It protrudes with clenched teeth –
In anger; in awe; in hiding tears in public.
The muscle comes and defines
The angle of my head when I tilt it.
The hair on my top lip darkens.
It gives the razor an excuse
To know my face.
The skin seems younger
Stretched across my skeleton,
It has now discovered my age:
I am twenty.
Each morning I shave
And note the growth.
I'm used to the stench
And the feel
Of disinfectant and bleach.
And bleach on my hands,
The scent clings hours after handling it.
I'm cleaning knives
In the kitchen sink
After dicing chicken,
A meal I'll split in two.
I'm eating more often in bed.
My sheet is found with food on it
And with stains from the sex we share
And the love we made.