KEIRA LYNN DODD

Hard Work

 

Wait.

 

Take a breath.

 

Remove the old clothes.  

 

Begin to undress:

 

First the shirt,

     three sizes too small,

Then the jeans,

     faded to gray, yet still vaguely uncomfortable,

     and you remember that they never fit, even when new.

Now the socks.

     You slide them off like snake skins

     to reveal pink feet that you tentatively place

     on the white tiles under you,

     wriggling your toes, awkwardly

     leaving prints in the dust on the floor.

Your bra and underwear come last,

     and you seem unsure whether or not

     it's ok to reveal your shame.

When I nod, you unhook the bra

     with shaky hands.

You are flat chested and pale,

     but you resist the urge

     to hide yourself from my eyes.

Keeping your eyes on me, you bend over,

     graceless, and slip the shabby underwear

     down your thighs and let them fall to the floor.

 

I know your thoughts.  

 

You are wondering if you are beautiful

     or merely passable.

 

I don't know what answer to give.

 

You have short brown hair,

     cut in a trendy, angular way

     that suits your face.

Your teeth are bad,

     as if half-heartedly arranged by a lazy orthodontist.

But your eyes are honey,

     the dark kind,

     and they search mine with an openness

     that implies strength.

 

When I look at the rest of you, I feel

     only compassion, not because you are misshaped in any way,

     but rather because of your abject humanness,

     the mixture of vitality and vulnerability

     that makes you alive.

 

You are shaking like a cat that has been stroked roughly

     too many times, and I know you expect me

     to lash out, but not this time.

 

I stare at your prickled skin

     and bruised knees that want to knock together,

     that scar on your thumb from a childhood accident,

     the one on your face left there

     by an over-zealous surgeon removing a mole.

Your flaws speak to me 

     out of gaping mouths, crying for acceptance,

     but I withhold it.

 

I am neither hostile nor kind.

 

I am only cold, observant.

 

We have performed this ritual a thousand times,

     but still it holds a fascination.

 

I watch you grow deeply uncomfortable,

     the cold becoming unbearable.

Your arms fly up from your sides,

     and you hug yourself

     in self-defense,

     but I see the ragged nails

     digging into your skin.

 

Your eyes harden, accusing me,

     and I accept the blame.

 

I want nothing more than to reach out,

     to touch your face with a soft hand,

     to smooth your shoulders 

     and wrap your whole self 

     in a warm, fuzzy blanket,

     hiding the scars and imperfections,

     but I force myself to see them.

 

I stand perfectly still and violate

     every inch of you with my eyes

     until you are weeping huge tears

     that trail down your imperfect face

     and slide down your throat

     into the nape of your neck,

     seeming to choke you

     as you rasp for air.

 

You have your eyes down,

     so you don't see my eyes soften.

 

I have seen you so many times,

     have judged you adequate,

     have labeled you decent or average,

     or even subpar or pathetic,

     but never beautiful.

 

Never have I seen you so accurately before.

 

You aren't so much beautiful

     as radiant, glowing with an internal light

     that until today I had missed 

     in my daily superficial inspections.

 

You aren't smiling,

     not pretty,

     not anything like a picture postcard

     of beauty.

 

You are precious and whole,

     common in your majesty,

     unique in your ordinariness.

 

I want to hug you,

     then realize I already have,

     though not in the way I'd hoped.

 

I loosen my grip on my arms

     and lower my hands to my sides.

 

I watch myself dress

     with a new appreciation for my plain, old self,

     carrying an epiphany with me

     inside where no one can see.