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.