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.

the eye

About Jim Stewart

Writer at Butt in Chair
This entry was posted in Consciousness, Man, Poem, Woman and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Parts

  1. I’m an eye person, too.

    • narble says:

      Yep. Gazing aimlessly is kinda fun sometimes, but it’s who’s in there. An old man, like me, who flirts shamelessly is like a dog chasing a car. Okay smart guy, what are you going to do if you catch one? It’s humbling, but true enough.

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