Naomi Shihab Nye


All night I stare into the mirror,
at the deep wrinkle beginning to show
on my forehead above the right eye.

I move the muscles of my face
to see where it comes from
and it comes from everywhere,
pain, joy, the look of being puzzled
and raising one eyebrow,
from the way I say YES too much,
I say YES when I mean NO
and the wrinkle grows.

It is cutting a line across my head
like a crack in a creek bottom—
starting small, shiver between two stones,
it ends up splitting the bed.

I wade carefully, feeling with feet—
smooth-skinned pebbles,
the minnow’s effortless glide.