She watches me in the mirror
preparing to met you.
She doesn’t know.
She must know.There are your fingerprints everywhere
and they shine though my skin like coins from
the bottom of a pool.
People who know me are surprised they say I look different,
but it has nothing to do with hair or neckline or noticeable waist.
It is the way desire looks in a woman when it is revived
when it is no longer pressed senseless under heavy glass.
It begins to break through my skin loud as red roses
in a white white room.