Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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It’s 10 p.m. I’m out front watering the flowers—
the sunflower, the butterfly bush, and the rose
all glistening in the warm dark. One of the husbands
is taking out his trash. Somehow he gets to telling me
the details about his buddy’s trip to a nude beach. 
There are people who really shouldn’t be there, he says.
I mean, there are things you just don’t wanna see.
He flashes me a knowing, young-and-handsome smile.
I smile back. No, I say, you’re wrong—your buddy’s wrong. 
The beach isn’t for him. It’s for them. And I go in.
In my room, I undress at the dark window
as I often do, running my hands over the one body
I have known all my life. I who was once young
and beautiful tell you: the body wants to be loved.   

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