Listen to Liam P. Bryant read Interpretive Bias:
I like the subtle way my face leans to the right,
As if to ask a question I already expect—
cheeky, with a fake dimple, and slightly suspect.
With eyebrows cordoning off my cheekbones,
and two hazel eyes cut between fields of doughy tan.
Some quite-but-not-quite curls fall above my forehead,
before excusing my ears to a telemetric span.
Follow the runway path of my nose bridge to its terminus,
and meet my lips, which,
should the light catch them right,
make my chin and jaw look like we planned this beforehand.
But the truth of the matter is that my face has been changing—
hair and oil and skin and time,
all’ve mixed their media on this palette.
A paste translated through second chances,
chamomile tea,
and other ephemera like the morning light.
Each morning we exist is a delight—
the time and place where the world prepares to meet you once more.
With a nod, with a knowing smile,
and a wink to the past versions of myself,
that live within my eyes, my nose,
the crinkle of my lips,
a cupid’s bow refraction,
Scars from head-to-pavement interaction.
Oh, I love myself.
Otherwise, how could I be?
No—you must imbibe, indulge;
parse every fiber of yourself,
look in the mirror,
and ask how you ever spent twenty years regretting living in that skin—
Within those eyes, that nose,
that stupid cupid’s bow,
the dimple on your cheek.
It all goes to show.
All it takes to love something fully
is a pesky matter of perspective.
Liam P. Bryant is a third-year student studying art history and Latin, but he dabbles in the creative arts in hopes that one of them pans out to a job one day. He loves the idea of vacuuming, wishes humans never invented capital, and can't stand the idea of a soggy sock.
This work appears in the Winter 2020 edition of the UC Review: Translation.