I wash my face with products
I never thought I could afford.
Press clear gel into my palms,
swirl warm water and splash:
think about the summer days
coming home from the barn,
sweating, speckled in mud, no running
The horse buckets were much colder
I look at my face, stretch my skin
to examine the scars—
remnants of returning chicken pox,
a burn from Dad’s cigarette,
tiny strawberry craters Mom pointed out
These marks have faded now, but still
I wash and wash and wash.