~KATE
SONTAG~
SECOND
NATURE
Following the dirt path again
beyond the No Trespassing sign,
sidestepping puddles from yesterday's
rainstorm, early raspberries puckering
the insides of our cheeks, I hear
summer's perennial question
through the opening in the trees:
How naked is too naked?
By the time I spy a space
to sprawl among the others, by the
time
I finally shed all my clothes,
the Down East sun burning
my back wants to know,
the horsefly biting my shoulder,
the quarry water admitting me icily,
the minnow swirl between my full
dimpled thighs.
My first summer I spent
as an outcast in a black bathing
suit
that clung like angst to my
floury breasts, midriff, and buttocks.
Would not look. Could not
help but look. Downright stared
when no one else was looking.
Don't we all have a second nature
we eventually slip into like nakedness?
Their father stripped lying belly-up
on the warm flat rocks next to them,
my grown stepdaughters (who’ve skinny-
dipped here since they were children)
always
undress so unflinchingly down to
nothing.
One by one, they dive off the highest
ledge,
swim out to the floating log to
meet a pair
of equally unadorned men their age
waiting
to compete as the three sisters
hoist bare
asses over then stand up on sparkling
legs.
Slowly, all five begin a steady roll
that gathers
speed each time they turn their
bodies in unison,
facing us one moment, their backs
to us the next,
—or stalls, whenever someone tries
to reverse
the log's direction, then resumes
momentum—
streaks of hair dripping light on
skin, fifty toes
gripping wet wood spinning until
everyone
slips sideways, flops forward, or
backflips
in clownish tandem but the middle
daughter
whose perfect balance over the years
makes her Queen of the Log.
Applause
from above sends shivers as the
fallen
climb back on to start the cycle
over.
How naked is too naked?
When you lie down beside your brother-in-law
and his two girls? Your future
son-in-law?
Your neighbor recently divorced
from his third wife?
The white-haired lobsterman who's
sired dozens
but stayed single all his life?
The housepainter
and his pubescent boy? It's
an island tradition
to disrobe at St. John's Quarry—where
locals
join in with the summer jerks:
a pair
of Scandinavian nudists, shrinks
from New York City, a lawyer
from Camden, a sculptor from New
Orleans
and his fashion-model cousin, families
that have vacationed here since
the 70s,
a group of guys with pierced penises
who've taken the ferry over from
the mainland
to spend an afternoon—where everybody
joins in the collective wave to
the occasional
small aircraft hovering low as an
osprey. . .
To sin as a child was to peek
at my stepfather
through the venetian blind
of my own hand
as he hobbled from bed to bathroom
Don't look, don't look, don't
look!
or through the crack in the door
while he stood at the sink and shaved
—the burgundy birthmark mapped
across his back a foreign continent
the same forbidden shade
as that sack of bruised plums
dangling from the peninsula
between his legs. At seventy-four
my mother still hugs herself
each morning on the scale
in the privacy of her boudoir
as if chilled by the pallor
of her own stark moonflesh
and the tidal dark. If only
I could surrender at will the final
garment of self-
consciousness, peel
guilt down to the ankles
like a girdle and silk
stockings from an earlier
century swept clean as cathedral
granite.
© by Kate Sontag