One thousand seconds by Timothy Pilgrim

No motion permitted, lie back, hope
dermatologist named Lance knows enough,

laser in hand, can scorch an evil layer
off cheek in sixteen minutes plus.

Eyes closed to each flash, time to dream
womb, baby, dark to light. More sparks,

face teened, back seat, homecoming queen
staring up from underneath. No luck — wake,

only one hundred seconds gone, face of age
not wiped away, nine hundred left to hate.