Someone told me I was naked.

I didn’t know what it meant.
No one knows what it means at first.
Nakedness only finds you when you’ve seen
What it looks like not to be.

“Cover yourself,” someone said,
And my condition that once seemed natural
Became of distaste in the shadow of the
Sweet discovery of artificial covering.

So, I protect my sweaty loins, I cover my crooked feet.

I lie to veil my anxiety. I feign strength.
I suppress my childlike intuitions.
I pretend intelligence. I curate my image.

I’ll never run naked again—my imperfections exposed
To God and the world.
No one would accept my hideous form,
No one would forgive my obscene exposition.
I would not fast forgive myself.

And there is a problem in this legacy.

The problem is not that I discovered my imperfection.
But when I was told I was naked,
Unlovable was implied. Unforgivable inferred.
Like a fool, I took the bait
And have since wrapped myself in acquiring both.

Yet, I heard about a man who washes naked feet.

© Tanner Rinke 2006