I am surrounded by fabric
whose sole purpose is to cover me.
The full-body mirror reflects
my limp breasts,
my pale saddlebags,
the bloom of a birthmark on my shoulder,
and my daughter,
who toddled in, bunny in hand.
She sees her own face:
the one I made in secret,
quietly thrilling at my masterpiece,
this soon-to-be published work
that would make me an artist.
She sees her own face--
not her swollen belly,
the tousled wisps in her eyes,
the body parts she doesn't know the name of yet.
She sees her own face
and kisses it.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment