Holding the mirror, thus

Up until the point when I splayed my buttocks and, twisting round, saw my anus in the mirror for the first time, I had never been curious to know whence my faeces came. I was nine or ten. When I mentioned my anatomical discovery to school friends the next day, they told me that they were well acquainted with theirs already. Suffering a chemical burn to my scalp was the only reason, at age 40, I again used a mirror, this time to check the back of my head, and noticed I had a rather pronounced whorl. Dorsal awareness delayed once again, I promised myself that I would henceforth pay more attention to this aspect of my physical being. But the back parts of me, which I have subsequently observed carefully, are difficult to liken to anything else. Similes introduce unnecessary traction when trying to establish a subject for a poem. Holding the mirror, vigilant for signs of pinworms, there are no similes, no likening terms.