If you think seeing a naked woman
is a disappointment
because what you had imagined was so much
better than what was there, may I suggest looking at it in a new way.

Maybe instead of pondering
the tentacles and mouths beneath
her clothes,
you could ponder the bright things
that lurk beneath her skin.
You can look
at her glistening pussy lips and wonder,
my god,
               what rivers 
must run through her body to create
that overflow of wetness.
You can look at her breasts,
dark and sensitive and soft, feeling
in your hands like the greatest of treasures, and come
up with multiple theories as to what lies
beneath them that could possibly make them mould
so perfectly
to your touch and respond so enthusiastically
to your tongue.

Her body is so much more
miraculous and dream-worthy and mysterious
when naked than when she wears clothes.

The mystery has never been what might be
found under her clothes; that is just something of hers
she lets 
              you enjoy
because she thinks you to be clever.

The mystery
is in imagining what writhes under her skin that makes her body move the way it does;
what worlds are inside her that create a gravitational pull so unyielding;
what makes her body a fertile ground, enough to grow the tenderness
of her gaze, the audacity of her courage, and the ferocity of her tongue.

The mystery has always been
how you plan on maintaining your cleverness
for just long enough
to convince her to let you stay
with her, there,
              and naked, too, beside her.

(This is a response to a (much better) poem by Neil Gaiman about nudity. 

As I was going up the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. I wish, I wish he’d go away.

— Pablo Neruda

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Kim Addonizio, For You