Her Nakedness

At the market I see a beautiful woman
her gray hair long and untamed, her only adornment
a three-tiered necklace of lines. The skin
on her hands is dappled with sun spots,
and her voice opening on "hello" is ripe,
slightly bruised at the edges like the peaches
she places in a basket. She moves slowly
through the aisles, considering what not to buy.
I follow closely, pushing my loaded cart
and trying to imagine needing so little, year by year
learning what to step out of. First, these high heels,
rickety stairs on which I topple. I'll exchange them
for cushioned oxfords that breathe something back,
or open sandals like the ones the beautiful woman wears.
At home, I unpeel my stockings and slide
into soft shoes, lift my long skirt
high to the mirror, practicing how it will be
when I earn enough courage. Twice this summer
I've flaunted my purple veins to people I hardly know.
I don't want to become the woman in the story
who bathed in rubber underwear, ashamed for God
to see her nakedness. Her Nakedness, so royal a title
for such a bald sight. My aunt, who lost
her thick black hair, wears a wig for strangers.
But at home, holding court beside a new husband
and a niece with a full crown of hair, she removes
the wig and stares into our eyes, as if daring us to love her.