On the Actor or His Magnificent Face​​

Gaunt in the desert, at a diner, he picks

at prop food, assuring his companion

he’ll be dead soon. Michael Shannon

deep in ruts of makeup artistry, dusty,

dressed up like a vigilante, and I’m waiting

for a flu shot at the Minute Clinic,

two blocks out of LA county.

Fifty years ago, my father powdered his face

for the stage, painted lines around his eyes,

shellacked his brows. Expressiveness a virtue,

subtlety another, like playing drunk

by playing sober in a suburb kitchen, calm

and crazy, telling truth but out of turn.

I’ve become obsessed, working through

my daddy issues and his resume:

Michael Shannon in a suit, gender theorizing.

Michael Shannon on the industrial kitchen floor.

Michael Shannon in red lipstick, in a beard,

a cardigan, a motorcycle jacket.

Michael Shannon with a cigarette,

a scowl, with sideburns, with a bowtie,

with a baby, a guitar. Undercover

in a magazine, posing as himself. The drug

store nurse removes her syringe.

Michael Shannon on his knees,

squibs burst open,

buttoned down and crimson soaked.

Squeamish! – I’m collapsing toward the carpet

by the spinning periodical display – what

engulfs me, or my father

who monologized. Forgive the intrusion –

Michael Shannon,

when you wash & dry your skin tonight,

will so many faces fade eventually to one?

Mara Lee Grayson’s poetry has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Tampa Review, Nimrod, and other literary journals and has been nominated for the Best of the Net and Pushcart Prizes. Grayson is the author or editor of five books of nonfiction. She holds an MFA from The City College of New York and a PhD from Columbia University and previously worked as a tenured professor of English in the California State University system. Originally from Brooklyn, New York, she currently resides in New Jersey.