I wear about a quarter
of my father’s face in mine, though

my dad used to look at me and say
my mother would never die

until I was gone. I can see them
both when I look closely at a mirror,

especially if I’m smiling, twisting
my mouth for a crooked instant. 

I’m not sure I can see myself in there.
Not sure I ever have.  Just a mix

of other people — his mouth,
her eyebrow; maybe that’s

a chilly, distant uncle I barely knew
in the left ear, a hint of

a damaged cousin who died
when I was newly born

sleeping in the curve
of the jaw. 

I have no children, but surely somewhere
there is someone who shares

something of me in the worry lines
around their eyes.

I think it will take me being gone
before I am fully present in the face

of someone I do not know, some relation
I never knew existed; someone who recalls me

and sees him may say
oh, he looks just like Tony.