where I spread cheeks 
in search of yeast,  
freeze the keratoses,  

dip my head in liquid  
nitrogen, send cancer- 
ous craters to the moon,  

I’m reminded—sun  
and fragrance are culprits,  
browning of the body,  

peppermint goat soap,  
the lavender field in showers,  
every scented ointment,  

cream and lotion.  
I tell the doctor everything  
is natural. He replies,  

Poison ivy’s natural too.  
and hands me pristine  
lists of what should be  

applied. Vaseline Petroleum 
Jelly (decades since I used  
that lube) Vanicream  

(there was a time, 
on city streets, men stopped  
and turned and ogled)  

Aveeno, glycerin soap  
(in mirrors, fingers under  
ears, I lift my slack  

throat) sunscreens  
for sensitive skin, Endless  
Summer, Daily Defense  

(in Grindr groups 
I cover scars) There’s a  
quotation, unattributed,  

at the bottom of the page,  
The skin has a memory.  
That evening, warming  

near a fire, I ask my husk  
what it remembers: 
Hunger in boy’s hands.