I wear a young woman’s body,
my skin taut and burning bright,
scrubbed clean with a loofah,
the scent of lavender or rose
tucked away like a handkerchief
in all the places I want you to touch.
It’s not an illusion, even if I could
stand behind a curtain and pull it off,
more like an infusion of everything
I’ve come to know, the slow curve
of my hip bone descending to waist.
It’s all there–the scars and wrinkles,
the way my skin pleats up and down my arm.
But whenever we make love, they disappear.
I wear a young woman’s body.