Colleen S. Harris
I Dreamt I Was Unblemished
The ivory skin spread
Beneath my nightgown.
When I stretched
and tickled it with lace,
it twitched like something
born—or dying. This skin
was a snowy coverlet
riding my bones
across the slow slopes
of my body. I knew
it was not mine, mine
bears the brunt
of my desserts in silver
stretch marks, inscriptions,
garish graffiti, scars
from clumsy fingers
and careless sharp edges,
a timeline of terrible
decisions confessed
on my own pelt. I stroked
my new-person skin
in awe—it trembled
beneath my hand until
I slept the way beautiful
women sleep, deeply,
still, a duet with the duvet
pressing me into clean
blue cotton sheets.
I woke in the morning
as myself, lined
with fat and age, skin
a receipt of choices made,
final sale, no returns.
