Her eyes are blue;
not that typical in-between dark and light blue but
icy opaque mystery.

Her jaw cuts to sleek neck,
no flab of sun-born leather hiding the jugular.

Her collar bone is profuse dip, it contains
lickable pools of quiddity.
My finger has trailed it to rib to tight
hourglass cleavage that shames Hogarth.
Curves matter more than size,
but with both, she opens doors,
trips the male mandate.

No need to press flesh away,
her hips
are slopes of invitation
handholds for habitation.

Legs smooth, waxed and buttered,
thin for grabbing, angled for sliding
all the way down to the floor…
but not quite.

Her feet are
callouses layered like tree years,
cracks to gone children,
crags to fallen loves,
toes hooked in multi-direction,
confused about where to step.
Skin globbed betwixt
carries the weight of the lie.