For Margaret Gaul

The light
drains me of what I might be,
a man’s dream
of heat and softness;
or a painter’s —
breasts cozy pigeons,
arms gently curved 
by a temperate noon.

I am
blue veins, a scar,
a patch of lavender cells,
used thighs and shoulders;
my calves
are as scant as my cheeks,
my hips won’t plump
small, shimmering pillows:

but this body
is home, my childhood
is buried here, my sleep
rises and sets inside,
desire
crested and wore itself thin
between these bones —
I live here.