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Botox, You Magnificent Beast

Oh, those great Landscapes that wonder through my world, winding and telling my story:I became a Fertile Crescent and the depths descended upon the face of my being,
that is to say:

My Face

The crevasses are deep, wide, unimaginable:
Are they filled with clay? Or rock? Or water? Or Mommy Brain?
I speak of the deep ridges of my forehead and right there between my eyes, also
those tiny spidery lines that appeared under my eyes in, like, the exact moment that I became full with child.
Dang it.

I seek an ointment, like the Balm of Gilead,
around the place where my Motherly Crown doth lie: well, to be accurate,
just the front of my crown – because the back hugged warmly by the back
strap of my visor, held together with Velcro.

Is it you, Botulinum Toxin, could it be? I carry a candle into the dark to find you, hiding-
Come closer, Botox, and be by my side.

My Dear Toxin, I want to laud you like Mary Oliver worships a spoonbill
or writes 16 pages about the glories of a quiet morning.
Mary, I feel you, Girl.

I have never reached your heights, Ludicrous Liquid, because you are like
a damp snow on my wallet or because
I have been nursing a sapling at my breast and it turns out that it’s frowned upon to have your Golden Nectar dripping through my bosom…

You know what I think is sacred?
Not awaking from slumber looking like I had a frown party whilst dozing and
dreaming (of you, of course, my Dear One.)
I look as if I’ve practiced my RBF too often when I should have been stealing away
for a long-awaited nap.

Oh, you vast sea: I imagine you before you enter the syringe, as if I could swim in you.

Hey! That might even be a good idea, O Holy One –
why don’t I just dive in and perchance you shall wipe away the wrinkles that lay softly
yet aggressively around my bellybutton from my over-sized animal of a son as he lay waiting in my womb like a sleeping beast, ready to awaken.

As an aside, I’m fitfully delighted that this is a poem because run-on sentences aren’t real. But you are a bacteria and don’t care about grammar and syntax anyway. That’s another reason I like you.

I shall fall at your feet and weird out the assistant at the surgeon’s office,
saying -through hot tears-
“OH! It’s You! I’ve heard of the crunchy sounds you shall make when you pierce my
forehead wrinkles, and I’m OPEN to that!”

There shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth
when approximately six long months have passed (I’d speak with more wisdom of
time in ‘fortnights,’ but I’ve never been fully clear on how long that is exactly–)
when your effects have worn off,
and I long to commune with you again, in secret

I shall give you a nickname, my Sweet Elixir of Faux Rest, because you are basically
a term of endearment personified,
and I love you with all of my face-
…or may one day, when the celestial beings that Mary Oliver writes of,

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