Woman with Girdle

Your midriff sags toward your knees;

your breast lie down in air,

their nipples as uninvolved

as warm starfish.

You stand in your elastic case,

still not giving up the new-born

and the old-born cycle.

Moving, you roll down the garment,

down that pink snapper and hoarder,

as your belly, soft as pudding,

slops into the empty space;

down, over the surgeon's careful mark,

down over hips, those head cushions

and mouth cushions,

slow motion like a rolling pin,

over crisp hairs, that amazing field

that hides your genius from your patron;

over thighs, thick as young pigs,

over knees like saucers,

over calves, polished as leather,

down toward the feet.

You pause for a moment,

tying your ankles into knots.

Now you rise,

a city from the sea,

born long before Alexandria was,

straighway from God you have come

into your redeeming skin.