We’ll tell our daughters what we wanted
was an extra layer of skin, to be fit around
like the hand, instead of the glove. That we wanted
to be warm, to be comparable to something
other than seam or silhouette. That we were never
the veil but the heat of proximity to the veil
that the face feels, just before his hand reaches for it.
To feel ourselves both choosing and chosen — maybe
resurrect our mothers’ best statements, if any.
But that outfit — was she even thinking? they’ll say.
(Noting, too, how our pants grow higher every day.)
Hands behind our hips, we imagine our young daughters
into our bellies, wrapped inside a spandex hug.
We are hoping to be the material of the future,
to do what we can’t do — stay and stretch — at once.
Or, quietly, to feel like girls again,
again more slender than. We’ll say we knew
the awkward claim of leggings trying to be pants
and remember how we wanted
each other’s permission for comfort. To be naked
in our bodies, but covered.