Red peach porcelain skin
Hints of December snow
(Freshly fallen, that is --
No March slush in this complexion)
Slavic cheekbones higher than clouds
Protruding slightly under taut flesh.
Lips glistening, reminders of
Dewberries, strawberries,
Blackberries.
(Some summer fruit ripened to perfection
Bitten into seductively by some pin-up temptress)
Bright, wide eyes,
(What was that hue? Steel? Aqua? Indigo?)
Framed by a curtain of black velvet lashes.
Curved, arched eyebrows
Frozen pictures of bedroom antics;
Slightly erotic,
With just a dash of schoolgirl giggles.
Pert Irish nose,
Slightly upturned,
A dainty, almost childlike afterthought
In a visage so adult.

Collarbones like luscious curving paths
To a décolletage that would make men gasp.
(And women sigh with envy)
Hands of an alluring musician;
A coffeehouse independent
With neatly trimmed nails,
So adept at manipulations of
Instruments, gestures, and
The feisty buttons of clothing.
A tight, trim waist,
Conjures daydreams
of a classical corsetiére's
Piéce de résistance.
Hips, smooth and flaring out
Complete this hourglass reverie.
Legs shapely and slightly muscular;
A former ballerina's limbs
Retired to the runway,
Or a summer home in Maine.

There is a mysterious elegance in this woman,
A mélange of the strange and alluring.
An anachronism; such a 1940's face,
Decades later, miraculously reincarnated
And still tempting,
In this bustling new country.


Skin like a peach, yes.
Blotchy and fuzzed,
And a bump or two.
A section of rot on such a
Repugnant, overripened fruit.
Gaunt, sunken cheekbones
Suggest slavery to some addiction
A drug? The drink?
Cigarettes, then.
Yellowed teeth and halitosis lie in wait
Behind such parched, cracked lips.
Thin lips, like tiny slabs of liver
Prepared for the discount aisle
Of some nameless supermarket,
Or the rubbish bins out back.
Eyes just a little too big
Just a little too bright,
(But it's true. The hue can't be named.
How can one name the cloudy colour
Of blue exhaust, downtown smog?
We'll call it Los Angeles,
For the sake of topical humour.)
Lashes like reminders of jungle spiders,
Tarantulas, or some equally
Horrifying and hairy arachnid.
Stray hairs around the browbone
Scream of a dip in the Neolithic gene pool.
Bushy, unkempt, hidden by powders,
The apothecary's secret recipe.
(Eye of newt, and toe of frog
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog)
Nose just a little too upturned,
Insinuating snobbery
Or swine.

Collarbones competing for prominence
Among the blemishes,
The eyesores.
(How could that have been called a beauty mark?)
Breasts that would no doubt swing
Without the illusory magic of a pushup bra,
And silicone implants.
Knobby, gnarled hands;
Twisted, wrinkled, thin hands.
Jaundiced fingernails
And how cracked.
A waist that seems to defy proportion
(There must be bulges beneath that cloth;
Nobody can mimic Barbie dolls)
Hips that could easily allow the passage of twins;
A rump like a well-oiled tugboat.
Muscular? Hah!
Men's legs have more shape.
These are the legs of an old tree.
A Douglas Fir, perhaps a Californian Redwood.

There is no beauty here, in this female,
Fresh from the awkward, gawky platform
Better known as puberty.
An anachronism, yes.
Young girl thrust into a clumsy woman's body.
No kittenish 1940's grace here.
Simply kind manipulations of words
To create a pleasing illusion.