Sylvie Naked
I haven’t thought lately
about the way my body looks—I’m just
a mouth for telling jokes, for biting
back the truth, hands for steering
and touching Knox’s stubbled jaw and sometimes
in the night, I’m a nervous system, I’m shaken
awake. I’m shaking a little, thinking
about it now. We make a pile of our stuff
by the spring, what we can take off
and walk away from. Knox pulls
his shirt off by the collar, one-handed,
ripple of muscles in the shoulder,
a chest I haven’t touched yet
without the pretense of sunscreen.
I’ve always been so careful. Do it right,
don’t risk your future, don’t let it
go. Am I abandoning all that, watching
shamelessly the shift of his strong,
ropy arms? Then his fingers
go for the button on his jeans
and I spin around, thinking
about my ears, now, the artery
in my neck, the pulse in them, the tremble
in my fingers. In my knock-around
sundress, knock-kneed, sliding
the straps down around my arms
and hoping he isn’t looking
and hoping he is. I’ve never
been naked in front of a boy
before. How dark is this dark,
tonight? How much light
do we really need to see
each other for who we are?