Undressing

Laura Taber

First, I’ll remove my wedding ring

(The ghost of it, since I don’t wear it anymore)

I’ll drop the real ring in a little box to store or sell later

The ghost-ring will get tucked away in a far corridor of my brain

(Remember when I was married?)

Next, I’ll peel off my clothes

My t-shirt: reeking of anxiety sweat

My leggings: the functional uniform of a mom

My bra: 32D, bought to hold the boobs we bought three years ago,

back when we were still excited about each other

(At least I’ll get to keep those; they won’t split the silicone 50/50)

I’ll peel off my underwear, intimate against me where his hands used to slip

when he still loved me

I wish I could say I’d wash my makeup off next—scrub my face of every lie I’ve tried to tell the

world about me

But I know I’m entering a meat market

(We’re animals, after all)

Where I’ll have to employ the magic tricks of women to attract a mate

I’ll scrub my body, washing it of the memories of every touch

I’ll focus on my right upper arm, where his arm would rest,

And my feet, which would find the warmth of his body on cold winter nights beneath our sheets

I’ll wash away his phantom limbs—the tingling memory of his touch

Naked, clean, I’ll sit on an unfamiliar bed and start the real work of undressing

Starting from my scalp:

I’ll peel off wife-Laura

I’ll get stuck on my lips: frozen in a weak smile of appeasement

I’ll struggle over my hips and abdomen where I carried our children

My fingers will resist where I kept busy trying to please him

My legs will protest, not knowing any other way to walk

I’ll suck in and shimmy and strip and tug

Down to the soles of my rough feet

Still mourning the loss of their solid ground