“Leanness shrivels up her skin,
and all her lovely features melt.”
Ovid
Narcissus lingers, sighs—
“How soft you are,” stroking.
In this daily veneration, I enlist
a stalwart humectant from the drugstore.
The timing circumscribed,
you must trap the shower droplets
with your thighs and breasts
and the small of your back
before they evaporate,
leave you desiccated.
On face and neck and chest,
Applied with equal urgency,
a French milk cream that doubles
as an eye-makeup remover.
But today, I flee Narcissus
to chase the line that springs
between shampooing
and conditioning,
dispel the water freely
As I scrawl my back scabs,
a hoary crust of sea salt
burgeons like a thick second skin.
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