self-image

There are parts of my body that I will never see.

I examine the angles of my wristbones, the fat on my thighs;

I pull my foot into my lap and prod at its tendons.

But I will never see with my own eyes the twin dimples in my back,

the ridges in my spine that you trace your fingers down.

I will never myself see the ink splayed across my shoulders

the stars and shapes you press your lips against.

Even the back of my knee is a mystery,

a thing I see only in the fold of skin,

in the sensation of accumulation of sweat.

I watch myself in the mirror, the shifting of limbs, biting my lip;

my flaws in a list, top to bottom.

And I wonder what you see when you are looking at me,

when you see the things that I can't see.

Your hands circle my waist, circle my breasts,

and I flinch, but your mouth is on my neck;

you trace my imperfections, your tongue a description,

for a second I see what you see when you are looking at me.