Rafters of the ribcage brace themselves
against the skin, and slim
in the middle. Hipbones push out
like fists. From the back,
a nude woman resembles a violin.
When we tell a story with her,
she is an instrumental, a landscape.
When she turns away like this,
we admire her more, skin like
fabric, like velvet, a river
holding the light as it passes over
rocks and hills. Let’s make
her responsible for how she makes
us feel as we watch her.