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.