Still Face

She has a still face
under her more expressive mask,
and she says that it is
the truest one.

I love the active play
of her bones under the taut blush,
but will accept that it’s not the truth
if she says it is not.

What of your soft rocking,
gentle piston pulse,
I ask —

and she says that in truth
it is an iron engine
forever breaking stone
and what I hear and adore
is only its distant rumor.

Do I know nothing of you,
then, I ask?  And she says
that is so. But
she loves me for re-imagining
her. 

I reach out
at once upon hearing that,
wishing to seize hold
and take a measure.
I come up with only this poem
for my effort.  Her true face
and roaring heart
hang back but are clear
behind it, and I begin to miss
what I once believed in so strongly
that I could have lived happily
without ever writing of it again.