Transformation

She stands before my nakedness, black marker in hand,
and draws circles, lines, and ovals,
like a seamstress on fabric for the haute couture,
or a Prom dress for a giddy girl. Like me!
She, swathed in latex,
(ooh, miniskirts.)
will make a garment of me,
for me to wear eternally.

I lay on cold steel
and kiss the prince
as the swirling gas
stops the breath and
thoughts of fifth grade
when my sister, Marcie,
slides on Jordache without
a hitch, and I ache
to make them fit.
Can't breathe.

I lay in the ether
as she sculpts the curves,
removes the folds, and trims the fat.

I wake to a world of skinny jeans,
halter tops,
nights out with cosmos and Mesclun
Green, punctuated by a well-timed chuckle and
hairflip.
Can't wait to feel the love.