Out of the corner of my eye

I still remember it with wonder, the sight of him naked, 

the sight of him impressive and appalling-- 
I had never laid eyes on a bare-skinned man
(but had imagined how men might look, 
had turned over images in my head,
ruminated about the angles beyond 
the pelvis), and now here lies such a beast in person. 
In the hallway, in the early light and hush of our house, 
(I am the only one up), when out of the corner of my eye, 
I see my parents' bedroom door ajar
and there in all his raw vitality lays my father, his bulk 
and scale so marvelous: 
a buttocks in full view, a heft of thigh 
roofed in tangled hair--and, terrifyingly--
that ripened kiwi dangling.  
My parents lay side to side, his face in fields 
of her hair, his arm a bridge from his 
breathtaking flesh to hers, 
his thigh a mountain along her dunes .
My eyes wander without shame over their bodies 
as if they were dead.

.

.