In his hands I was beautiful. He made
my body sunlight. He was hungry for
my form. He tasted me. He made me sure
that it was right that I should be displayed.
I never knew myself like that again.
My husband never liked it—couldn’t bear
to think that it was me, that others saw
my body as it was, the one before
the marriage, kids, the daily wear and tear.
And he was right. He didn’t have me then.
The thing I most remember is his hands:
the way he worked, the way he touched my skin.
My body was a moment in those hands.
He made me beautiful and I loved him.