Enough

There is a delicate beauty in the simplicity of a sweet potato and the perfect hidden starchiness buried within.

There is a delicate beauty where wall meets wall and they kiss in an embrace turned love-child named corner.

There is a delicate beauty in the way a squirrel, plump from autumn’s harvest, flicks its tail at you in blatant disregard.

And there is a delicate beauty in tiny ant legs carrying tiny ant body up tiny rock castle.

For the wonder of the world lies in these things.

There is a delicate beauty in how a solitary snowflake guilds the eye-lashes of those you love.

There is a delicate beauty in how hands fit perfectly into other pairs of hands as if to say—yes, this is where you belong, and I will wrap you up tight.

There is a delicate beauty in how the scent of warm soup comforts body and soul like an old friend.

And there is a delicate beauty in how coffee beans slip and slide cold off your fingers when you plunge your hand deep into the coffee bean sack.

It is all.

It is enough.

Let Me Love Me Naked.

America’s next top model, undressed, reassessed.

Sorry Tyra, I’m done playing fake.

I’m going to stand here.

Stand here naked.

With confidence stretched blithely across my thighs (thighs that are too thick),

wrapped around my skin (skin that is too loose),

smoothing my face (acne face).

Keep your material girls, Madonna, let me love me.

Let me love me.

Let me love me naked.

Bare-boned soul, spread-eagle, open to the world that awes over my

nakedness and pinches the fat on my arms

with stainless steel forceps.

I want to be naked, naked and proud, proud of my soul, proud of my nakedness.

I want my body to be bare and my heart stripped clean

and I want to stand there, mirror to skin, skin to soul, and say

I am naked—and I have arrived.

The slick knifes glinting off shamed skin—

this is why.

The heavy heaving into the toilet, ribs-sticking-through—

this is why.

The skinny jeans, the heels-that-make-your-butt-look-great, the push-up bras—

these are why.

We are trees that have been struck by lightening,

and our charred limbs are aching for relief, for release, for anything and everything.

For nakedness.

So we stand with our eyes open-wide to the skies,

bare skin pin-pricked by sharp, biting air,

arms stretched, reaching,

fingers grasping,

feet planted firmly in soil,

toes digging into dark, damp earth.

Naked trees.

Silhouetted for the world to see.

Because maybe if we can be beautiful naked,

if we can love our own battered, bruised, and broken bodies,

we can love others’ nakedness--their deep down god-awful, horrible, hard-to-touch nakedness—

maybe we can love that too.