History of Skin

"History of Skin"

In the morning, when the sun is new
and waking up with her,
she likes to pretend his naked skin is a world,
lying prone against her,
hand absentmindedly sliding down smooth curves.
She populates the land with secret histories,
secret people she whispers to the dark
when he comes home and the food is hot
but her heart is lukewarm.
Plunging her hands into the sink,
she pictures the sea and herself a God,
impersonal Athena of dishwater
washing away with soap the secret
histories of cutlery,
the mouths and lips and tongues
that live in their pasts.
She imagines herself a dish
in the warm water of a bathtub,
uses a loofah to wash sins
and men from her skin,
hoping against hope that it can be hers again.
She remembers a time long past
when she made futures with her lips,
not people with her hips
and his skin.
She doesn’t tell those stories anymore.
She picks up his plate
and hers,
both dirty now.
She makes love to the chore,
does the dishes with warmer water
to feel her hands pink,
and she wakes up
touching herself.