Two faces (not face to face) face away
as their words spin and sway, stick fast and slip.
“Facing facts,” he says. She says, “Your hair’s gray
like my dad’s.” Fear bubbles between the lips,
overflows. “You are trying to seduce
me.” He taps his finger, his smooth voice faked.
She shakes because in war there is no truce,
only surrender. Gauntlet thrown, she makes
her curtsey to the king and bows her head,
swallows herself. She thinks of Daddy brush-
ing her hair; his tenderness, now her dread.
Lies still. Plays dead. He does not see her flush.
He knows her better than she knows herself;
She knows him better than she knows herself.
Procrustes
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