Strip Tease
A young man stood first.
He showed us a bit of wrist, tugging at the sleeve
of his loose-fitting,
preppy,
button-down shirt,
then finally taking it off
to lay it gently
on the table in front of him.
He wore his clean, white
tshirt beneath,
but we could see
the ripple of fear that gripped
his belly,
from the exposure.
The next one came, and she had
less to lose,
more to show.
She stepped gingerly out of her shoes
to grip
the old wooden floor
with her icy toes,
as the cadence of her voice
brought us with her to that bedroom
so long ago
of the boy
who was the boyfriend
of a girl so small.
She counted the boats, named them
schooner, sail, yacht.
Bule, yellow, red.
Boats on sheets for a boy bed.
Bed sheets made to sail,
not steal the soul of a girl.
As we counted the boats
with her
we barely noticed
as she slid her skinny, black, Audrey Hepburn pants
down her pale, pale legs
to lay them crumpled
beside her worn out shoes
still stained
with alcohol from years of barroom floors.
Then another came forward.
She did not pause, but commanded us to look
and removed every shred of fabric
every trapping of separation
between human
and animal,
and forced us to see
the bruises she endured and even coveted.
Atonement.
Redemption unment.
Punishment for accidental sins
like seeds
someone else planted.
She stood there, brave and
unclothed in front
of us.
I looked down,
saw my own flesh -
exposed, raw, dirty -
that everyone else could also see.
The blade has tattooed words across my skin,
so I stood to read them
Words like death. Rape. Loss.
But clothed in pretty rhythm,
in artful alliteration
so the audience does not notice
quite so much,
just how naked we all are.
