We’ve always known it:
this little strip of shoreline
where the void’s starry surf
laps so lazily against our earth—
this is a nude beach.
Souls come here
to get over themselves,
to shed that embarrassing thong—
the “almost-nakedness”
that calls so much attention to
inner flab,
the under-handled love handles
deep inside us.
Small wonder that—
after lifetimes of strapping enticing veils
over the genitals of our oneness,
when we finally stare down
at the nakedness we sleep in
and see what the skimpy fabric of “me”
did to the indigenous brown contours
of us—
we weep.
These white shadows
were never meant to mar
the supermodel
of our heart.
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