Self-portrait with the Buck Moon
Modeling a dress, I witness
my own discomfort, in not wearing a bra.
The black jumpsuit, backless and strapless, leaves
my side boob completely exposed. I look
in the mirror as I tie my hair in a bun and pull out
the pearls that my mother gifted me, twisting
the tiny stoppers to my ear. I take a picture
in this glimmering light, feeling flattered –
what I haven’t felt so long in this body.
I send this photo to my lover
who texts sexy, instantly, and though we live
miles apart, I change out of my clothes
and think of his lover’s gaze, which I do not want.
But because he says he understands,
I tell him the photo wasn’t taken for you, it’s for me,
staring at the shape of my peeping breast.
For days, I fixate
on his gaze, and our love,
returning to google, out of habit.
This July moon is named for the full
growth of the antlers of male deer,
and now I question the walls of this poem,
my eyes, my words, my own
that fail me the most.
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