Body Image

fingers slip around lens-cap ridges,
like washing a cucumber in home’s kitchen
sink, my fingers wet with sweat but he knew
how to work the machine light, washing us
as he stripped naked. Me, taking naked photos
of him, nozzle aimed at head and I can’t wait
to shoot.

He lowers his guns, retracting back into body
against the cold stool. Me and the peer of picture,
the intimacy of a baby, of a book, of food,
of all the small things we can touch. I wanted
to conquer his exposed bush, brown and shaggy
like my dog’s fur, of my childhood, my fingers
entwined in its plush chunks around his head
peeking, licking my young face through my shy
blush. I worked the machine to clean the picture
of us, trapped gas and whiskey ridden, he said
we will want to see us pretty at twenty three
            when we are old and ugly

the april fool’s snow reminding me of thirteen
when pimples wedged in nose crease and stomach
acid bit throat and teeth and finger nails, I talked
to Tommy Fink minority on three accounts- black,
Jewish, and the one boy of my six person friend
group, some thought he was gay, like some thought
I was gay, but I never thought of his
sex, of pictures of his penis, naked as a baby bunny,
head peering from hair, blind, eyes squeezed shut and me,
bathed in monitor’s glow, I thought I should want to see-
my fat body which I never forgave, ketchup stained skirt
around my ruby knees, between me and the screen and I,
I wanted to see him naked.