Disjointed (Poetry)

These are not my legs.
I left my best pair on a beach
in St. Tropez in 1967 —
slim and brown, hairs bleached
to a soft fuzz
declaring natural blonde.

These are not my hands.
These crabby fingers never rubbed
Ambre Solaire across
a stranger’s shoulders
or stroked from his boy’s face
the sea that salted him.

These are not my breasts.
I have that picture clear
how round they were
back then — hand-cupped
and moonlight-kissed —
lifted, joyous.

This body is not mine.
Someone took the one I had
inch by inch,
then limb by limb
starting when I fell asleep
sometime in the eighties...

And now I’d like it back —
mostly because I miss
its fine familiar textures
like some long-ago-lent book
I wish, with fading hope
for its overdue return.