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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
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