Mask

I made my mask of many charmed doors
Of sunlight and folded song 
Fomentations of linden
Of night, of silence dipped
A subtle concentration
As lilacs contemplate opening 
Lids extend, down, dawn
I made my mask of stilted rhyme
Sitting in corners, unsewn 
Clutching small cups of rice 
The last muslin dress 
Twisted into handkerchiefs
I made my mask of news
Quartered, pleated, palimpsest
I made my mask of losses
Of unnumbered unworn gazes 
Shifted away in the street
Of the names I’ll never know
In beds, apartments, on stairwells and rooftops
I bundled empty playgrounds, rubber mats
Metal bars, school gymnasiums and lecture halls
I took the loneliness of students 
Parents and children sequestered
I spoke to the illustrations of persons 
On cereal boxes lined up, the compost heap
I made my mask of walls and time
Gaps in emptying garbage, rain collected 
I made my mask of mistruths overheard
Suspended air droplets, parachutes cloistered
I pulled the sheets up to my chin, over my mouth
Then laundered the bedding, towels, coats
Scarves, and every expression beneath. 

Laynie Browne
Wallingford