At Last

At eleven PM
when the news starts,
go into the yard and strip down.

The floodlights will catch you
and the locals will come to their windows,
staring and pointing.

You’ll be naked, your scars will be showing,
but no one will be able to say
you’re not in your own skin.

In the glare, you’ll find yourself growing
like a nautilus, each new curve saluting
the previous curve, and you’ll glide away

into the current.  At last — no longer
contained in a shell you never wanted,
now carrying a sculpture around you that fits.