My body’s blemishes are
buried deep and hidden
in its crevices.
No stranger sees them, but
if a lover were to survey me—
and I hope for an
undiscriminating
nighttime consort—
they would find them:
a warped birthmark
on my left thigh, pimples
on my back, a mole,
irritated, oozing,
on my left shoulder—
my body’s pressures
all pressed out
as somatic
imperfections.
By Chandler Wakefield
