“Take off your clothes.”
This is you.
The you that wants to be known.
And me, upside-down reclined on your couch.
Stockinged legs slung over its back.
Head hanging off its front.
Neck stretched long.
In you I delight that I might have finally found someone.
Not only smarter, but stronger than I am.
Not because I have a desire to be protected.
But because I am fascinated by the challenge it presents.
“Take off your clothes,” you instruct again.
Your voice now with that edge of stern.
I ponder the pieces decorating my body.
In what order of poetry I’d like to undress.
Sometimes, I think, you take my contemplation for hesitation.
What you may not realize is: there’s an art to directing the movie of my life.
Ever so serpentine and supine, I languorously remove my clothes.
Feel the considerable weight of your gaze upon me.
I begin mapping the sensations of my body.
As experienced by your discovery of it.
“Open your legs,” you command.
Because you and you alone are charting this new continent.
I do as I’m told.
And you, like a long-awaited explorer, fall to your knees upon its dark soil.
The long-slumbering seeds, buried just beneath the surface.
Practically begging for your presence.
Wake me. Wake me. Please.
That great divide between what I haltingly communicate to you with my language and what you communicate to me so abundantly with your touch.
No one has ever known me.
Not one man.