Paint clings better to paper mache.
A strange bird’s feathers
float between her mask’s furrowed eyes.
Her eyes, the only humanity visible,
and they are dark and creased. Overflowing.
The gold paint glimmers how she cannot.
The tired smile is carved into the mask,
not her.
Her skin below the mask hesitates,
drifts out of the fabric of her costume.
Bright and faded, it stretches,
and folds over her like an envelope
without enough postage.
When she changes her face,
she turns away and her dark hair curtains,
and creeps down her back.
The mask has become her;
the paper hides her hollow.
JKolasch
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