Naked

Naked
from Prima Materia, 2018
 
When I strip my clothes off
they become possessed — not air
a figure forms, the buttons
eye me and pass judgment
 
Milky blues squint to decide fate
 
Could my hair be unravelled
as a cotton wheel, loose from my
mother’s wicker basket?
 
The sleeves go flat to break my back
slams, orders community service
 
They made a teacher out of me
by dyeing pound coins red
and slapping me in the face
with a fake, rolled up degree
 
Congratulations Mrs Boulton, it’s a civil servant
 
The stitching in the shin of my jeans
reads through my CV
makes suggestions and labels
my measurements with bullet points
— sharp as poppers on a fly
 
I try, but the wigs and whips lacerate flesh
until steam escapes and fades my body
 
Hard times breaking rocks with your skull
— repeating the same questions with only doubt
ever bothering to reply
 
If God were real, I imagine him to be sat on the toilet
crushing silverfish under his shoes
 
As I strip bare I see marks on my arms
old scars and contours
I am unfamiliar with them
 
For the first time I know how many chest hairs I have
I know their names; meet all of their kids
 
I scold the material, now I am judge
 
Being naked, you feel the cold more
squirm at heat
 
you know what pigment is hiding beneath
how different it is
to the colouring and freckles others see