I

 

Evenings I’d find you

            bent over the dining room table

                        like a surgeon over a disembodied angel. 

 

Under five yellow lights

            you would rearrange

                        the wispy wings, pin them 

 

to the floral cotton,

            the blue corduroy—

                        the common material our bodies might fit.

 

This was the beginning

            of the reconstruction. You worked

                         with a quiet determination,

 

the knuckles of your long fingers

            whitening

                        as you applied the tiny teeth

 

of the tracing wheel

            against the delicate skin. 

                        Later,

 

after your careful unpinning,

            the anticipated sundering

                        and airy uplift—

 

forgive me my moments of doubt—

            the mortal fabric

                        would lie there, yes,

 

bearing the marks ...

 

 

II

 

You knew in time                                                                        

 

            the dress or slacks would grow

                        too tight, or short,                                                

                       

that our days would be a succession

            of stepping in and out of pants and skirts,

                        blouses and shirts,                                                

 

of turning in the long mirrors,

            wanting beauty,

                        lines that flatter,

 

cloth that carries the wearer

            when brains are not enough.

                        Yet wanting more than that.

 

Despite the turtlenecks and scarves

            you wear today to hide

                        your wrinkly neck. 

 

One day it will all come off. 

            Someone will bathe our bare bodies,

                        maybe efficiently,

 

perhaps with revulsion or fear.

            If we’re lucky

                        with tenderness.

 

I cannot bear to think of you this way.

            Your lovely, bony body

                         no more. 

 

Your dress folded over a chair.

 

From Luck (Parallel Press, 2000)
Used with the author's permission.