Naked Lady

Renunciate her at once lest mummering strangers weary you with endless chatter. Do it publicly and often. A penitent must never wander from ceremonial washing. Go home and shower till you prune. Then cloth your supple wrinkles to showcase a modesty they will only snicker to see you lose again. Put her away with a promise never to return. Her exposure has become your own. Any charity you extend to the quivering shall be disqualified so long as her garments rest over and by her feet.

What is gentleness so long as she dances stridently without a stich? How can any register your gentleness against the silhouette of her writhing shadow? And to the issue of honesty, what of it? Is truth a fabric to which we may cover her breasts? If not, her judges will make no separation between lies and forthrightness from either of your mouths. A woman of ill repute? Yes, but not irreligious. She sits patiently at your bedside waiting for you to conclude your prayers. She may even whisper an amen unironically. The same mob which growls over your tolerance of her are the very same which drove her in to perpetual nudity. Perhaps this is why she is able to make you forget their injuries. She is scarred in the same place they now cut you.

This self-appointed jury speaks of cheer while oddly sporting a scowl. They laud self-restraint in emotion laced rants, and almost threaten hearers with their prescription for peace. It is not so with the naked lady. She laughs without pretention. Every tooth lines up a true smile. She understands human frailty and does not fake answers. I am starting to comprehend her dance. It starts with a taunt of sex, but ends with rhythmic surrender to the knowledge that good is always one step ahead of evil. I too share this faith.