Parts

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

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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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