Live Nude

Art students stroll inside with hesitation.
The large classroom with curtained windows
houses a large rolling stage
upon which I shall stand in the nude.
I am the living still life, the basket of fruit
peeled beneath hot can lights by sharp eyes.

Standing, elevated, the lights stab my eyes.
My hands grasp my robe’s sash with hesitation
as I slowly divest, revealing my body’s fruit.
“How does this body pass through the windows
of these artists’ minds?” I ask myself, completely nude.
I look at them. They look beneath the stage.

The Venus stands opposite of me on stage.
Her ebony skin glowing gold as onyx eyes
gaze upon fresh grey Bristol paper, bare and nude
of black marks. She grins, and with no hesitation
poses as if she were spotted naked through the bathroom windows
by a lover. Her body, tempting like ripened fruit.

A stopwatch sounds. Time to assess the fruit
of our labor. Venus steps off the stage,
and like peering through clear windows,
she sees herself through someone else’s eyes.
She approaches each drawing with zealous hesitation,
and relishes in the proclamation of her body in the nude.

I think of Doryphoros, David, and every other male nude.
Sculpture best showcases the rope-knot muscles and budding fruit
of the spear-bearer and David’s staff and sling. The hesitation
of the slanted contrapposto stance is the first stage
of combat. They both grasp their weapons as their eyes,
focused like handsome hunting lions, determine the windows

of opportunity. My only weapon is curtained windows.
A man without combat, without conquest, is nude.
The stopwatch sounds. Time to pose and fixate my eyes
on nothing in particular. I am just a basket of fruit.
Adam’s apple, peach fuzz. The beginning stage
of the rotting of man. Eden fell with no hesitation.

The square-framed windows and rounded fleshy fruit
unveil the art of the nude as I stand on a cold stage.
Their peeling sharp eyes are focused with deliberate hesitation.