Hours before an autumn sunrise would erase
the morning darkness
I kept the lights off
hoping to learn
what remains
when I cannot see.
I stood under the shower stream
uncertain and nervous
I knew the wall was inches to my right,
the shower curtain rustling to my left,
the soap was in its place and all I had to do was reach
with a hand I couldn’t see
up and forward
slowly, slowly
until my fingers brushed the caddy
found the solid shape
eliciting a buoyant sense of accomplishment
usually reserved for much larger tasks.
I caressed myself clean
like I used to bathe my infant son:
the simple pleasure in greeting his little toes
sliding my hand across the smoothness of his back
following the curves of his arms and legs with lathered hands
the surprise of delight in the small round swell of his buttocks
the cautious delicacy soaping genitals soft and nascent with ease.
My fingertips slid over bone and muscle
along bumps and curves
stubbly bits
smooth expanses
meeting my arms, my belly, my legs, my breasts, my neck, cheeks, forehead
a familiar body,
nothing new, really
my prodigal tome
always out on loan
well-worn
perused and read by patrons
sometimes avid
sometimes bored
conserved, finally, in the special collection
to be handled gingerly,
reverently.
I read myself in braille
rubbing the tension in my shoulders
laughing at the cliché of my own round buttocks
whispering my thanks to the openings
that have brought pleasure or life
that release what is no longer needed
marveling at how typical a body it is
form and function
like all the other bodies standing under a shower spray
even if most people turn the lights on
when mornings are dark.