A ripe raisin stain
that suits almost every woman’s pout
is Revlon’s Carnal.
Goddess, with its hint of burnt toast and lilacs
is lovely, too, but no matter
which religion you choose,
you may find yourself in need someday
of a big constructivist bra.
Thus carried, voluptuary,
like a wooden woman carved and halving
water from the prow of a great
invader’s ship,
you help the new world find you
holding up the fallen self.
Beauty cures us of our innocence,
lost and otherwise.
That’s why mascara sales are booming
(mine is called More Than Mascara,
but what could be more?),
and why, I suppose, the students of Bauhaus
built Auschwitz: form is function, baby,
smooth my cuticle,
wear me down.
What continues to astound, however,
are the number of women daily
who need reminding that a black eye is not a bouquet,
a pimp is a pimp. For those
who plump on facts, here are some beauties:
warm waters persist in the equatorial Pacific;
the Goths preceded the Ostrogoths,
but by the late 4th century
the Visigoths laid claim to what we now call Spain and France;
in 1966, when I was nine and taking
instruction in female fear,
Richard Speck killed six nursing students
(the seventh hid under her bed
while the butchering took place in an adjoining room)
in Hyde Park, Illinois, one by one;
finally, love in tennis
does not mean you are winning,
and a rumor has been floated lately
that Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’
non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma
was caused by the permanent hair dye she favored
for decades, a raven heat signature
full of heavy metals.
No woman is beautiful enough.
Sadness, gladness, pots of gloss,
the higher the hairdo the closer to heaven, it used to be said,
but who was I addressing when I prayed
for beauty as a kid?
Mary, maybe?
I confess I wouldn’t mind drying my husband’s
fine-boned feet with my hair
were it long enough, which it isn’t, and these days,
I ask more modestly,
according to my age and station.
For a natural part.
For the perfect bluemarine pareo to wear
on lavish cruises
where the buffet tables are laid out past midnight
and no one likes the cut of her bathing suit.
But who is that deckhand
standing there, sunlit, swabbing,
breaking my heart?
Oh, Hart Crane, old lonely, I keep seeing you everywhere
with your infinite consanguities.
Don’t jump.
The water is already torn
and dragging dirty crinolines in our wake.
The sea birds are starving;
beauty is circling, beauty needs
all the help it can get.
Where did you say this boat is going?
Oh Richard Speck, put on your penitentiary shirt.
You white skin hurts us all
to look at it.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
