Skin

Creased beauty, hissing with zips:

fringing each cuff, exposing throat

to navel. How many pockets are false?

I’m prickly with studs, silver nipples,

tiny Madonnas strutting, flaunting

Gaultier. When I shrug, I flex

a flight of plumes: toucan, parakeet,

bird-of-paradise, shimmering filaments

stitched into hide like the black tattoo

riding my shoulder. Always wings –

you know I’ll fly, but still reach out

to touch my sizzling firework

as I ignite. You covet the spark

of molten glamour, though it burns.

Suzanna Fitzpatrick