It’s almost fluorescent, the purple inside.
A fistful of follicles, ten thousand between palm and skin.
When did I know my body well?
It’s gorgeous, the almost wet, the always-shine of it.
I can count folds with a makeup mirror.
I can make a phallus of fingers to clench around,
but that’s not the point of looking, now.
My browns shade into each other, darkening
towards thighs. When did I first know to look?
And how? Here it is, little lips bearing each other.
Here it is, the whole not-flower of it, the whole unprecious.
The mirror casts back thin slices and I’m jealous
of all the lovers who have seen it full-faced,
the whorl of skin toward tube, the tuber puff
of membrane. Here it is, spread with looking.
When was the last time I fanned out for myself,
and saw, my not-emblem, my wafer of almostwet
with my own two eyes? Have I ever seen?
I love my body blind and that’s fine,
but I want to look its entire handsomeness
straight in the face.
