Shoulder soirée, all mine

Maia Nunez || Fall 2020

I repeat it over and over,
My new nighttime mantra: I’m lonelier than ever,
But at least my skin is soft!

You see, the autumn chill is unkind to my hands
And when I’m laying on my side at night,
Index finger languidly running up and down each crevice and nook
I must look and marvel at the unanticipated smoothness,
Revel in the rivets of my hand and discover a love for my company,
Formerly frozen, dormant, and miserably ashy.

Migraines aside,
And enduring cramps out of haughty pride,
(No need to medicate!)
I’ll embrace myself, aches and all.
Catch a glimpse of the dinner party on my back
And discover the assemblage of persons and stories,
Sired by pain, etched in my skin
And laugh at a clumsy siren, one of my kin, spilling sweet pink wine
And her lazy whines
Melt down my spine
Scented with sensual security (and vanilla!).
I’ll gaze coquettishly into the mirror
And tiredly celebrate life with the shoulder soirée, all mine.

And then I’ll drown in the lulling thoughts of lovers or friends
(What’s the difference, really?)
And the safety my cold caring hand harbors for them
Who would delight in my twig-like fingers,
Ever growing, twisting, reaching.