(Cut me some slack here: It’s Springtime!)
Yes! to the right to bare arms. Sunned and weathered arms, farm arms, hot and spicy arms swaying to a Latin beat. Arms presented in tank tops and muscle shirts and short-cropped T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off. Arms offered before crossing the street or stepping off the ladder and onto the roof. Arms that lightly brush up against us on the bus and double-wrap around us as we sleep. Biceps lifting boxes, solving equations on the chalkboard, directing traffic the day the power blew. Arms scarred from the fire, frail and weakened arms that silently ask to be steadied so he can write his name. Talking arms speaking in sign language, moving like magic and breathing life into words we can see. Freckled arms, speckled arms, saluting smartly as the ship pulls slowly away. Arms! Lifting little ones out of harm’s way, reaching up to pluck the topmost grapes from the arbor. Raised in fierce defiance, raised in Olympic triumph, linked in unity and raised in praise, we are charmed and disarmed by his arms.
(Excerpt from my out-of-print book, What There Is To Love About A Man (Sourcebooks, 1999). Used and remainder (imperfect) copies available for cheap around the Internet or just keep visiting here regularly and get them a page at a time!