Ruskin and the Terrors of the Flesh

 

Even in the candles’ soft glow

he could see the flesh fall

soft the first time Effie loosed 

her gown. Her skin held nothing

of the smooth, cold stones he had

caressed in museums, her lines

ruined and heavy. And the hairs,

reaching out from every crevasse,

so needy and insistent. He had hoped

long hikes in the countryside

might tire them somehow,

but they always reached for him

in the dark, found his fingertips

with a greater desire than

his own. He could bring himself

to this point of confrontation

but could never venture far enough

into this dark to conquer any fears.