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Is it true, she asked?
Are there only twenty faces in the world?
An explanation, perhaps, to why she appeared familiar
to another. She placed her hands on each cheek.
Hers, the kind with a blocky jawline. Irish, like a Kennedy.
Twenty: such a round number. Convenient.
But who has scanned the world across all ages
and counted only twenty different faces?
An archeologist digging up bones in Egypt, Venezuela or India?
A scientist in a lab in Greece, Nairobi or Jakarta?
If hers is the squared chin,
what are numbers two or three?
Perhaps the depth of a forehead, or the width of the brows?
Cheekbones that push against the sockets of an eye?
Maybe it’s not the shape but the gesture.
A look given to another. The quick turn of eyes
toward a lover or friend. The angle in which a head tilts,
the quickness of a smile
like the one his mother gave on her wedding day,
echoed years later by a granddaughter
who never knew her. That mischievous
knowing look at my camera when she was two.
The one they say belongs solely
to the other side of the family.
The look that was pointed toward me.
