Admiring a woman’s parts:
curve of derriere,
swell of breast,
turn of legs,
smooth of back,
arch of neck,
all clichés in a greater whole.
When I am lost in cliché, my shrug
says I’m hard-wired to look. It’s admiration,
I say, not a demeaning dissection,
not a collection of stand-alone things,
icons of lust where boys want to be men
and men want to be boys.
I ask myself:
what is my favorite part?
Chemistry separates mind and body,
a parade begins;
images flash until a face forms,
a face of no one,
an oval proffering illusions of symmetry.
The nose blurs and lips hint
a predilection to smile.
The eyes. Pull.
Colored irises articulate black pools,
pupils miraculously gather light,
the light that I am. I look into an
uncharted deep from a vestibule at the front door,
where out looks another human being.
That is my favorite part.
The rest of her is just that.