My body, a masterpiece
of pointillism—freckles, moles,
brown spots, pink spots, little red roses,
age spots, bright cherry bunions,
and bouquets of bruises paint
their impressionism on my skin.
After years living near the equator—
but not with Gauguin in Martinique—
and after decades of devouring news clips,
legislation, and policy studies
in the stalwart sun, my skin has suffered
every common skin cancer.
My arms, legs, face, neck,
shoulders, and back
wear scars
from the cancers—
scraped, burned, dug,
and sliced.
Today,
I coat my toenails
in bloody red nail polish.
