For Frances B.
I used to pluck my chin hairs. But an oracle told me not to. We were skinny dipping in the reservoir. I did not know her well. I do not even remember her words, only the meaning that evolved into my life poetry. We cannot hide our bad spots, like dishonest merchants with dented cantaloupes.
My hands move instinctively to these wiry extensions of my DNA. A decade after I quit shaving my peachy fur, I have grown so happy with my leg hair, all my hair really. My chin hairs have confused me. Six or seven hairs that are dark enough to see. But I am masculine as well as feminine.