I thought I was a china doll,
Madame Alexander’s Cissette
I got for Christmas, pieces of me
were just chipping off. Not
a Russian Matroyshka Doll
with smaller versions inside,
sweaters removed after a winter
thaw. I did not have layers under
delicate skin. Welsh my dermatologist
said, very fair. I remember I stood
on the hot tar Bermuda road as long
as I could, prove myself to be
a follower of the sun: a monk
walking on coals. How did I know
cells would multiply rebellious
as I was about spending long
hours roaming outside? Sea and
Ski on my nose, a snowy precipice,
perspiration should glide off.
My dark tan, a uniform for
camouflage on the beach where
the ocean peeled waves of
sea-through lingerie off, from
the glare in the shimmering sky.