My father said, in my teenage years
My finest feature was tiny ears.

My spirit soared; I didn’t know
Everyone’s ears continue to grow.

He thought I’d be a tad more neat
If less of me comprised my feet.

My eyes, he thought, were commonplace
Much better, though, than my acned face.


My ears are huge, my feet are spread
My eyes are weak—and my father’s dead.

Joyce Freedman

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