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.