Saddled with it, the large birthmark
on her chest, shaped like Africa,

too much to cut away. Years
of high-necked dresses, nothing

diaphanous. There were rumors
of a lover once. Unclear who left,

if she undressed. Aylmer,
in Hawthorne’s tale, was obsessed

with perfection—Georgianna dies
when he tries to cure her small

red birthmark faintly like a hand.
Only doctors and nurses see hers. 
 
Each morning after a shower,
when the steam clears,

it blooms in the vanity mirror,
her rough dark continent.