Translucent rags

After everyone had gone home

only the pulsating glow of embers remained.

I watched a possum walk through the yard.

A woman appears in the chair next to me,

wild hair, dressed in translucent rags

that moved in a wind I could not feel.

She says the moon is beautiful, I reply

I cannot see it from my chair, but

if I stand in the corner of the yard,

there is a gap in the trees where it rests on its way

across the sky. She floats across the fire,

rags catch fire, I pull off my jacket to smother

the flames. She laughs, stands naked…..unburned.

Rags will grow back, if I need them.

Does my nakedness bother you?

I reply the usual drivel about being alone with

a naked woman is not a good way to stay

married. She laughs, rags reappear.

We walk to the corner of the yard

admire the moon in the gap, she flies

to the top of a tree, moon juxtaposed in her arms.

She tells me to snap a picture with my phone.

I laugh, rags move in the breeze reveal

her curves; she looks at me, I look away.

She laughs a laugh that makes me feel

like a little boy caught peeping in a window.

She flies back and forth in the sky

her rags move back and forth. I am uncomfortable

with her burlesque; she laughs, comes and stands naked,

so close, I smell the woman of her body.

I begin to sweat, ask how she flies without a broom

she laughs until she cries, says women like me

don’t need a broom, never did and never will.

It’s our way of showing our dominance over

male ordained domestic roles; gray robes, pointy hats,

warts growing on our noses protect

our beauty from men who would own us.

We’d rather burn at the stake than be chained on

a pedestal. All women are a witches waiting to remove

translucent rags from the closet, learn to fly naked

silhouetted against the moon, become

assured and powerful in their nakedness, but

we hide it at the bus stop, in the nursing home

sitting in a wheelchair, calling out may I help you

behind plexiglass selling lottery tickets,

standing in the grocery line as you stare

at our asses and look away when we turn around.

Does my nakedness make you uncomfortable?

I try to look in her eyes, not stare

at her curves, she laughs, rags reappear.

We are testing you, we are always testing you.

This is how we build our strength, develop

the power to resist priests constantly pounding

at our doors, armies of men demanding we

feed their hungers, jealous of our flying,

in fear of the power of our nakedness.

gray ash obscures fire’s last embers.

She rises into the night, rags falling away

I stare at her ass, she turns around,

I look away, she laughs; she is always laughing.

10-4-20