I Realized I Was Naked
And Being Born

I wasn’t naked when the 1st pictures were taken.
My cheeks were as flush as a cardinal, and fourteen

fat aunts goggled at how that lion’s share shag
could grow from my thick skull in only nine months.

I wasn’t naked as a toddler either. I strolled through
the humidity of low-income with mom and the rest

of the cheerleading squad, golden locks halfway down
my back like bent sunflower petals. And I was the “prettiest

little girl” that ever dangled that perfect peach penis.
Eventually, I became the little man of the apartment,

that “thing” curved, and the flower child tapered down
to a greasy coil of rat’s tail that hung out the back

of my helmet. I wasn’t even naked then, when all us
puck heads showered together, snapped welts on asses

with towels. I was used to this nudity. From baptism,
I was buck as a liar before God, all the way through to Doc

McDonough’s hairy fingers commanding me to cough.
Never naked in the backseat of the LeBaron,

the windows painted the deepest shade of fog, as Coach’s
daughter gave me a new definition of scoring, totally

reshaped my goals. Never naked when my father took me
to the Y, with all the old timers like porpoises stuck to leather

Lay-Z-Boys, reading The Providence Journal, every imperfection
hanging out, playing with damp cards or making the rounds

between sauna, shower, steam room,
and back again. I loved it there, all our asses plopped

on the hot marble, squabbles about the Patriots, men shaving
without shaving cream. I was never a David there, never felt

examined like a wine cork, until recently¾
With thirty years digging their way up my neck, my back,

wanting to alleviate the gut, I decided to join the Union Square Y.
That was the first time I was naked.

That’s when I felt like a credit card bill, when I understood why
I can’t share a locker room with that perfect red head

championing the Olympic size pool. That’s when I noticed
a lumbering mahogany man next to me in the shower,

his eyes like zoom lens, and that huge branch barreling
from his midsection.

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Some good lines here. I would probably whittle it down a bit, but then I am a fan of thrift..
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this poem drew me in and made me want to understand, to know, but - i'm confused. i'm confused about the gender of the speaker. does it change halfway through or am i missing something?
because early on it talks about long blonde hair, cheerleading, and being "the prettiest little girl" - the peach penis made me hesitate for a second only because by this point i was sure this person was female, and so i thought it was an image for a pre-adolescent girl's sexuality. but then s/he becomes "the little man of the apartment" and body changes are described.
i guess i am missing all the sports / football references here aren't i? so in the end, it's about embarrassment at seeing another man's "huge branch"?
also, what is the Y and the Union Square Y?
yours confusedly, (rhia)
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He's male and the poem is delicious. ~Twinn
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The Y is the YMCA (you know, like the song) and I would imagine the Union Square Y would be the YMCA @ Union Square. I think what the poem is referencing in the beginning was that when he was younger, he had long blonde hair and was often mistaken for a little girl (maybe I am coming to this conclusion because it happened to me all the time when I was younger as well). Hope this helps clear it up some-
~~Cor~~