The Female Nude

I have done it. I have done it in this room

in broad daylight: unravelled myself to the human shape,

shown them the flush of my cheek. I shoulder away

my silk scarf, seize a whole breast in my hand.

The lamp gawps. Under the glass eye

my boot tips, a leather confession.

The guitar cools beneath my rib.

Your camera swallows the music—

the muted flats; greyscales its shocking blues.

This is the shape of the female nude,

her bald toes ten revelations.

 

I have scattered my wallflower fetters.

They crumple in heaps of blue silk, gold rings,

the virginal white cotton blouse.

Shutters whir and snap, the black eyelid.

This is the hand I raise to my hair,

the palm that has cut me from mirrors.

Skin cells, not pixels. Resolution of flesh.

This is the body of woman.