Everyone I Pass Has a Ripped Face

In memory of my best friend 

by George Brown

When they glance at this small soul 

the rips seem like your smile. 

So in the night when 

I do the mending, 

with twine, matches, 

needle, sage, 

a red pen, a few lashes, 

I sew shut the rips 

as you are far gone 

and should not be here; 

with the morning, the rips 

have grown, they leer; 

the bloodied body of the past 

stitched to an abomination, 

looking on as I pass 

I see you there, everywhere – 

so I stop to gawk 

at this passing, poor illusion, 

but you are far lost 

and cannot be here. 

Tonight: this small soul 

wakes from your dream 

to a cold sheet, the mending 

not done, and in the mirror: 

a man with a ripped face. 

3/11/25