Prosopagnosia Feels Like Looking Through a Tunnel and Landing in a Graveyard
I read recently that face-blindness
can be caused by trauma,
but I don’t know which trauma
caused what or why sometimes
I have scars and sometimes I don’t.
I don’t know how old I am
when I know this. I’m seven years old
and we’re at the zoo, or I’m twelve
years old at the aquarium. I’m smart
but not face-smart. There are too
many people in the crowd. The crowd
is one watercolor person, all faces blending
together into something I can’t recognize.
My mother is a stranger. I have hugged
the wrong stranger. I hug another stranger.
She’s not right, either. I go up to each
person in the room, every time pressing
close to the wrong person. My mind is
three steps forward or three steps
back—I can’t see anything in order.
I go to the bathroom and have a staring
contest with the mirror. It is only me
and this strange boy in the mirror.
I do not recognize my face but I recognize
my tongue, salty and wet and small.
Remi Recchia is a trans poet and essayist from Kalamazoo, Michigan. He is a Ph.D. candidate in Creative Writing at Oklahoma State University. He currently serves as an associate editor for the Cimarron Review. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Remi’s work has appeared in Columbia Online Journal, Front Porch, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry, among others. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Bowling Green State University.