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Foreskin

by Brie Beazley
(10/18/00)



Image:  Digital Imagery by Mars

When I saw the guy
I thought he was
a lost student.
A math major perhaps,
who had wandered
into the art department.

But he began to
undress. He revealed
light brown skin
as his clothes piled
at his feet.
Then I knew,

we had to draw him.

I put my charcoal to
the newsprint, outlined
his body, avoided his
penis and face, tried
not to feel
like a pervert
when finally,
I drew his cock.

I told myself,
this is art,
the tip of him
coming from the shaft
in my fingers.

I lightly drew
the foreskin,
the scrotum,
wondered when
my ease with sex
had turned into
embarrassment.

"Good," the instructor
told me, comparing
the drawing with
the model. "But,
where's his head?"

My classmates
looked to see
the headless body
and laughed.
The model himself
laughed, and blushed.

"I'm getting to it,"
I said.




©2000 by Brie Beazley

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Brie Beazley is the Poetry Intern at Clean Sheets.

Image Credit: Digital Imagery by Mars.


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