at long last I am
a “Porcelain Ivory” replica
(makeup shade #1, the palest,
does it cover the pink, puckered skin to my mother’s liking?)
A Roman plastic surgeon’s hand’s copy of the Greek original
and I stand at attention in your bathroom,
Aphrodite, naked but for my context.
were I to mount the pile of your clothes and stand stock-still:
I might be like the women in the museum,
not the honey jar of flesh but the marble,
illuminated, poised as if to take a step,
unhindered but for the unbalance of a blemish on my left side.
it’s not as if I’m clay, nor tusk,
despite what it says on the bottle
I am elastic of the block that bore me,
standing in your bathroom,
tolerating bad lighting, insufficient makeup,
until gravity turns me to marble and I am placed in the museum,
in the honey jar,
poised as if to take a step.