Writing Naked
by Joan Mazza
Twenty-five degrees this morning,
but I’m taking everything off--
the public mask of congeniality,
pandemic mask, the plastic smile
I don for strangers, hoping I don’t
set off a crazy person because I’m
a liberal Yankee. To write what’s real
I have to be bare, without layers
of the local norms, or cultural
restraints of what laundry I’m
allowed to air in public. I’ve shed
rules about telling family secrets,
or even voicing them within the family.
I’m not speaking in generalities,
won’t engage vague euphemisms
like down there or hand trouble
when what I mean is clitoris
and labia or violence at home that
leaves black and blue marks. I’m
painting the whole picture, writing
the scene as I remember it,
dialogue as best I can recall.
If I’ve paraphrased, that doesn’t
make it fake or false. I was there
and I remember. Don’t steer me
toward forgiveness. Don’t ask what
I was wearing, like my former
shrink. I was eight years old.
My father was forty-one. When
I read aloud what I’ve written
in a small safe group, I smash walls,
decades of silence, of pretending
all is well. How are you?
I’m not fine, but I’m writing
brave and true.
but I’m taking everything off--
the public mask of congeniality,
pandemic mask, the plastic smile
I don for strangers, hoping I don’t
set off a crazy person because I’m
a liberal Yankee. To write what’s real
I have to be bare, without layers
of the local norms, or cultural
restraints of what laundry I’m
allowed to air in public. I’ve shed
rules about telling family secrets,
or even voicing them within the family.
I’m not speaking in generalities,
won’t engage vague euphemisms
like down there or hand trouble
when what I mean is clitoris
and labia or violence at home that
leaves black and blue marks. I’m
painting the whole picture, writing
the scene as I remember it,
dialogue as best I can recall.
If I’ve paraphrased, that doesn’t
make it fake or false. I was there
and I remember. Don’t steer me
toward forgiveness. Don’t ask what
I was wearing, like my former
shrink. I was eight years old.
My father was forty-one. When
I read aloud what I’ve written
in a small safe group, I smash walls,
decades of silence, of pretending
all is well. How are you?
I’m not fine, but I’m writing
brave and true.
Joan Mazza worked as a microbiologist and psychotherapist and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam). Her poetry has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Adanna Literary Journal, Slant, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.