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there is a naked woman in my blog

I am fairly certain there's a naked woman in my living room.
I'm afraid to check.
what if she sees me,
peering through the lace of my curtains?

There are voices filtering into my bedroom.
My roommate. And another...

'Even though I'm not single,' I hear the woman say,
'I had permission to kiss Johnny Depp should I have seen him while I was in France.'

What if Johnny Depp didn't have permission? I think.

I very much have to pee.

'I've been thinking I'll plant a garden,' I hear her say.
'I never have before, but it just sounds so...fragrant.'

Don't be afraid of a naked woman, I think.

'How's this pose?' I hear her ask.
'Shall I turn more towards you?'

I need to be around naked people more often, I think,
It would be good for me,
Especially useful when there is one in my living room,
and I have to go to the bathroom.

I lay on my bed on my back,
imagining how it would go if I were more of a whirlwind.
I would enter the room and see it all,
I would wave my hand,
'There's reason to celebrate, a naked woman in the parlor!'
I would speak with precision and simplicity, compliment her lines,
Invite her back to my piano bench any time.

I would be nothing if not nonchalant
and extravagant in a way that she would want to emulate,
And my roommate, the artist, the wispy woman with strong bones and pale eyes,
she would draw it, and the drawing would be a little bit me.

'The wine? I bought it when I was in Italy,' I hear her say.
'The food in Europe is so good.'

I give a knock to my lace curtains,
I give a peek.

She is indeed nude.

The living room feels like a giant womb,
warm and padded by a dropcloth.

'Hi,' I manage to say,
my eyes trained to her face;
her neck is stiff.

My hands clutch my body,
a distracted scratching, a sensing of clothing.

'I've always loved the smell of lilacs,' she says to my roommate without moving,
'and jasmine, and lavender.'




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