get out of my face

by Ottavia Paluch

Somewhere out there is a statue of me
where my face isn’t as long, my sadness
shorter. I meet with her head-on. I tell her
to turn in the direction of the power ballads
and the attractive folks that sing them. I’ve just seen
a face, says Paul McCartney in the middle
of 1965, and I know for a fact that he is facing
the music of my heartbeat for no reason
other than to feel it. In 2020
my face falls off the face of the earth
and the water on Mars whacks my forehead,
then calls me back again and again
until like the waves I’m blue in the face,
falling constantly on top of my own skin.
Then I was looking out at that one white planet—
what’s its face?— staring out at the planet
that killed me. And I kept my chin up, armed myself
to the teeth, held my tongue, and kept my face so straight
that my breathing aligned with the stars.