Secret Skin

the floor of the stage
cold on her fresh-shaved skin
apple-smooth legs
writhe in mock ecstasy
hips,  move with secret slowness
lips learn to smile
all by themselves

she catches a faceless image
in the mirror-glass
of the cigarette machine
two torsos intertwined: the man, belly hanging
over his creased pants
legs clutch the woman: the girl
dressed in the flayed skin of herself

she moves on
listening to the swish of her own thighs
against each other
they think they have her captured, here
on a string between a bud light and a soundless hockey game
flaunting her vile voluptuous nakedness

see no further
shhhhhhh- she's telling her secrets
- this  nakedness?? - she whispers
- it's just skin deep, you know
they may have poked it and prodded it and stroked it
but never once
have they touched me-

Lora Bloom

If you've any comments on her poem, Lora Bloom would be pleased to hear from you.