Sarah Rizzuto

ANDREA: WAITING TO DEVELOP

I lie full-length on your bed after you've undressed me.
You take a Polaroid. I'm glad it doesn't cut my body in half,
like the mirrors that reflect only my face and hint at cleavage.
In my wheelchair, in my bathroom, I crane to see more of myself.
You wave the photo and the air fills in my color and image.

Sleeping with you is an escape from my mirrored existence.
I'm eager to look at proof of my breasts and hips.
We stare at the photo and I realize I've never seen myself
naked before, not all at once. I've never felt whole.

* * * *

REGINA: EXHIBITIONIST

If I had mastered the art of dancing naked
in circles on the lawn when I was young enough
to escape or quite near it without a scolding,
I would have done it, no question.
But I couldn't run, my bareness on display,
the shrill note of my mom's voice on my heels.

The beauty of being exposed, of my body changing
and being changed from diapers to panty-liners,
was the striptease of adolescence
my parents' hands motioned me through.
I grew used to others handling my nakedness,
so when college came, being an exhibitionist
was second nature, part of my show.
I told personal assistants how to showcase me:
colorful skirt and low-cut shirt.

During these exhibitions, the bathroom door
remained casually ajar for easy access.
At home, when I was young,
my sister walking in without warning
to grab a brush or my dad strolling in
to shave. All this while my mom
undressed me and I sat nude, talking.
My mom left and I'd wait for her to run the iron
over clothes I was just as comfortable not wearing.

* * * *

MANDY: CAREGIVER

Making love is a chore when everything aches.
When pain is my partner, my husband, Adam,
rubs my muscles, runs my errands, takes care
of our kids. Being my husband weighs like duty.
The blessing of being together, enjoying
each other's company, is rarer. Our love is diamond-solid
but my fibromyalgia sometimes comes like quicksand.

He understands
that re-heating leftovers, using paper plates
when we can't make it to the dishes,
and wearing the same pair of sweats
a second day in a row is healthier
than going back to bed and trying to sleep it off.
Instead, we take out the trash together. I push down
the garbage until it is compact and tie a snug knot.
He lifts out the heavy bag and we walk to the end
of our driveway. I open the lid of the dumpster
and he throws it in. Sometimes, though, the bag splits.
We grumble and swear, but later, it is an excuse
to shower together, to scrub ourselves free of the stink
that makes us hold our breath. And even with the insistent
tug of quicksand, its muddy traces, we don't sink. We hold on
to each other until we are solid again.

Sarah Rizzuto currently teaches creative writing at Southern Connecticut State University. She is the President of the CT Poetry Society's New Haven chapter. Next fall, Sarah will also teach a new Disability Studies course which will be offered through the Women Studies Department. Most recently, she was published in Kaleidoscope magazine and is working on submitting more of her poetry.