There is nothing wrong with sunbathing
nude, but I am still warning you.
As you slip out of your olive
pressed cotton capri pants, you will
be noticed. Even if you are surrounded
by Greek goddesses on the warm shores
of Mykonos, your feet burrowing
into the golden sand while your discarded shirt
skips its whiteness across the coast,
someone's head will turn toward you, and snap
a memory of your fresh, full thighs.

Even alone on a grassy mountain top
as you unfold your blanket, stuff
your socks into your sneakers, lie down
and prop yourself up on your elbows,
arching your back to feel
the thin Vermont air, a robin flying overhead
will make note of the goose bumps on your breasts,
and bring word of your spectacle home
to his children.

Chattering excitedly, they will ask,
"did she wear a bathing suit under her clothes?
Was she trying to portray her nudity as spontaneous
or planned?" And on the burnt out tar top
of your six story apartment building,
I will stare at the rusting plastic covered
lawn chair, imagining you growing tawny,
while the wind whispers to me
about the sweet aroma of your sweat.