faCes

faCes Bethany Conover

“Cover his face,” exhausted whispering, inlaid gold, wood foundation settling over linen. “Off to battle,” the menpo turns cheers sinister, smooth iron over rough leather, ever dripping sweat. “It’s darkened in color,” voice shifts through the herbs, buboes set in color; the birdlike god turns away. “How quaint,” her laughter trickled in wake as feathers flew through the air, Arm in arm unidentifiable monsters twirling, savages and gentry. “Today you will become a man,” he proclaims to his Tuareg

son, brown eyes twinkle in the Libyan sun, shaded by turbans tinted indigo. “Ten rial!” “five!” Shouting echoes through the bazaar, straining through the veil of the niqab, like a shadow she stares. “Shoot,” resonates up the stairs, thumping and slamming and grabbing, and twisting elastics behind red ears before hearing judgmental stares. Poetry 39