Molly

She is done with spreading,
spreading her legs
spreading brie on dry crackers, drinking
wine from waxed paper cups

It is true her life took shape as meandering clouds, thinly and soft with
private meaning, until
they sculpted her nose and
blew artificial wind through her hair

If you mapped her face, it would be like this–
provocative and turbulent: of sexual congress,

a blue mole in the crosshairs just below her lips
eyes bright as the moon though
circled in a storm ring, light
airy hair, dull as tin

She sweeps dust from little altars
in the corners of her apartment

squares her shoulders, leans down
to smell a vase of lilies

anxious energies rise up
another late-night photo spread
buy me   buy this   buy more

There are so many angles she must consider, blurred lines of penetration: chin in, hips out, knees bent, legs spread.

it is her mortal undertaking to sell,
to understand selling as dissonance,
to do nothing but look beautiful
with grace under pressure and

tend carefully the rising
pile of black leaves,

gathering beneath her feet.

*photos taken on the street in Florence, Italy