I know you want to hear about hers,
the same way my husband finally
confessed he enjoys looking for them:
the shadows of models' nipples still visible
under airbrushed bras on the posters
in Victoria's Secret stores. They keep
him busy while I finger the terrycloth robes.
But these are the confidences we fold
into our drawers or ball up for Woolite
and washing when alone, the place
where our eyes go silent and opaque
like the pale face of Venus, rising,
glimpsed through the telescope
of your curiosity about our private
hollows and shadows.
