The Shelf

The fluorescent lights in the dressing room

are a special kind of cruel.

They turn my skin the color of skim milk

and find every shadow I try to hide.

I’m trying on a shirt that’s two sizes too big,

and when I turn my head to the left,

my collarbone jumps out like a ridge of bone

carved by someone who didn't finish the job.

There’s a little salt-well at the base of my throat,

a hollow that looks deep enough to hold a secret

or a few drops of rain.

I look like a coat hanger made of meat,

waiting for something to be draped over me

so I can disappear back into the fabric.