The Naked Truth

Before we fell and wrapped our­selves in sin
A fig leaf seemed enough—if that—to shade
Us from His eye.  Cool breezes cooled our skin.
You might well say we really had it made.
 
When knowl­edge reared its head, removed our daze,
We gained a self-awareness, so to speak,
While God observed in non-controlling ways.
I think He knew that we were up the creek.
 
The cen­turies roll on, yet we lack grace.
Con­sumed with angst and guilt, when feel­ing bad
We pile on span­dex, vel­vet, fur and lace,
Then pad, con­strict, drape golden chains and add
 
Some shoes.  They are the final cos­mic joke,
The most absurd of gar­ments that we wear—
Out­sized, grotesque, mis­shapen things that choke
Our feet.  We find redemp­tion when we’re bare.

 

 

 





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Sally Cook is both painter and poet. Whether writ­ing or paint­ing, she keeps a sharp eye out for the psy­cho­log­i­cal por­trait. Her essays and poetry have been pub­lished in jour­nals such as The Chimera, Chron­i­cles, Con­tem­po­rary Son­net, Iambs & Trochees, Pivot, and The For­mal­ist Por­tal. Look for her in the next issue of Light Quar­terly. Cook’s review “Rhyming The Right”, of William Baer’s anthol­ogy “The Con­ser­v­a­tive Poets”, may be seen both in the cur­rent issue of The Uni­ver­sity Book­man and on its website.