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.

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