#NATIONAL POETRY MONTH
The Nude
A Haibun poem
My 19 year old eyes were surprised in art class today. The easel was dry, waiting for my paint to quench its thirst. The other artists, were gathered together like neatly planted cornrows in screen siren Bo Derek’s hair. She was a ten, then. There was no count taken of how many artists were in the class, working, painting feverishly, immersed in their strokes of colorful lust. Their busywork expressed renewed feelings, like budded cherry blossoms, developing into puberty. My art teacher didn’t tell us a nude was coming. The nude stepped out of his velvet robe, member hanging out, for my virgin eyes to see. I failed to remember what his face looked like, only the memory of seeing it, fitting into the hole of the whole class. It looked moist, and it tugged in areas often considered corrupt by controlling parents. Was he a ranger of reality, an outstanding standing citizen, or a limp carrying pastor, who preached morals to the masses, and never living likewise. The nude was paid regardless of what real job occupied his 9 to 5. His pale skin mattered, I wondered, and imagined what immoral sins had peaked his peck, whose opened legs were touched by his peach tree in bloom, I saw many ladies lusting for water, juice dripping from their cunning mouths, teeth digging in after the exhaustive expression of a slight silky grin. I imagined many oral sessions, were applied to the nude before. And I presumed some promiscuous things like that has happened to many of the artists in the room. I bet it wasn’t their first time to see a part of a budding peach tree.
A naked nude
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Ravaged my virginity
No parental eyes
