I surprise the women

dressed in their bodies: in breasts,

knees, eyebrows, pubic

hair. Excitable children appear

to accept them. Pitted and fat, dazzling

and golden, the women

drowse under the shower, a preview of

bodies the children try on

with their eyes. 
                                    At sixty-five, I am less than

a child, whose mother walked

fearfully clothed, afraid of the water.

My grip on the towel gives me away. I move

into the pool suitably over my head

past my mother's responsible

daughter. Later, wild to learn, I practice

standing alone — only my underpants on —

under the gun

of the hair dryer. 
                                        A queen-size woman

sweetly accosts me, recommends

more clothes. Someone has pointed out

a peekaboo crack in the men's

locker room. "What a shame," she intones,

"such a nice clean

club." I loiter in my underwear

worn out with surveillance.

What we don't know

won't hurt us.
                                    Oh, but it does deprive us!

These ravenous mermaids

stripped to their scales, swim from

the framed reproductions, pale and diaphanous

planes engineered for unmistakable

languor. Something has changed

in the changing room where we step out of

lingerie meant for the fainting couch

and bring on the body in person.
From Blue Dusk: New and Collected Poems, 1951-2001, originally published in Possible Sibyls, 1991. Reprinted by gracious permission from Copper Canyon Press.

We're publishing poetry from Madeline DeFrees each Tuesday in December, to celebrate her life. Read more about this.

Previously: Phobias Incorporated, Grandmother Grant.