Your midriff sags
toward your knees;
your breast lie down in air,
their nipples as
uninvolved
as warm starfish.
You stand in your elastic
case,
still not giving up the new-born
and the old-born
cycle.
Moving, you roll down the garment,
down that pink
snapper and hoarder,
as your belly, soft as pudding,
slops into
the empty space;
down, over the surgeon's careful mark,
down
over hips, those head cushions
and mouth cushions,
slow motion
like a rolling pin,
over crisp hairs, that amazing field
that
hides your genius from your patron;
over thighs, thick as young
pigs,
over knees like saucers,
over calves, polished as
leather,
down toward the feet.
You pause for a
moment,
tying your ankles into knots.
Now you rise,
a city
from the sea,
born long before Alexandria was,
straighway from
God you have come
into your redeeming skin.