It is stained with organic ginger beernear the buttons, a faded dribble
that leapt from loose lips that acted as anchors.
Saffron edges curl at the neck,
a blessing from the Rinpoche
with vows taken to live in the middle.
In the glass, the cream linen
lies old and nearly transparent
against the contrast of hot skin
steeped in the shower, nipples
colored like berries in summer,
flat beneath the fabric.
Pleased, I stare at myself
and begin to think, if I were a man,
would I like this kind of mystery?
An almost tangible outline of breast,
the sternum’s valley cast in shadow,
thoughts about the skin’s smell,
its taste upon the tongue, and then
deny it to myself, grinning, knowing
the imagination depends on what
cannot be seen.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Callused Hands, Issue 9, 8/09