April
by Dale Heath
On a warm April morning
I prepare for a trip to the mall.
I approach the mirror
In my bedroom
And survey myself
From all angles,
Taking inventory:
Shaven legs,
Short girlish shorts,
Orange T-shirt,
( A little tight in the chest ) ,
Long, crazy, frizzy hair,
Beard shadow on my lip and chin.
I can't possibly go out like this.
I quickly remove all of my clothes
And begin to redress,
Grabbing an old faded oversized black T-shirt,
A big, baggy gray hooded sweatshirt
and a pair of unremarkable blue jeans.
Pulling my hair back into a severe ponytail,
I look at myself
In the mirror
In my bedroom
And feel a wave of shame so strong
That I have to sit down
To steady myself,
Holding my head in my hands.
I can't possibly go out like this.
I get up from the bed with a new resolve
And remove my clothes once again,
Finding the crumpled shorts
Flung so carelessly to the floor,
And the slightly tight orange shirt
That I secretly adore.
Dressed once again,
With my hair down,
I approach the mirror,
Shaking,
Deciding in that instant
To trust my first instinct:
And go out
Into the world
To the store
And risk being seen
As I wish to be seen,
As me.
Dale Heath resides in Forest Park and works full-time as a librarian.