The world remains fascinated by men’s skin.
Advertisers pitch shower products made for men,
as if scrubbing men’s shoulders were harder work.
Sculpting a body is sculpting a body,
male or female, the same precision, the fine
detail is what counts. Getting the ears even.
We watch their backs unasked, unbidden, even
when they protest our vigilance. Their thick skin
holds in delicate organs: lungs, kidneys, fine
veins carrying precious oxygen. Real men
downplay such weaknesses. They treat their bodies
like tanks. They don’t know how they work. They just work.
Injuries are bound to happen in the work-
place. Loss of limb, second degree burns, even
when precautions are taken. Should a body
be rendered incapable of work, the skin
broken, fluid leaking, the other men
firmly reassure. “Man up. You’ll be fine.”
You need good eyes and a steady hand to find
the shard of glass in a child’s finger, working
in deeper. Boys must be trained to become men,
to avoid displays of emotion, even
with a foreign object lodged under their skin.
We coach: “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
Adolescence mutates the boy-child’s body.
His new pimples are accompanied by fine
hair with beard potential on the smooth face skin.
The endocrine system unfolds. Hormones work
silently to change the voice, the height, even
the attitude. Girls don’t want boys. Girls want men.
Girls want to be strong enough to care for men.
We make alterations to our own bodies—
plucking, tanning, dieting; spending evenings
reassuring one another: “You look fine.”
This is part of the body of women’s work.
We learn to comfort. We develop thick skin.
Our men are renewed in their sleep. They are fine.
The body is an astounding piece of work.
Everything is replaced, in time. Even skin.
