Big breasts heaved into a pink bra
with matching panties, on sale. This is lace heaven.
This is a nameless model paid handsomely to stare down
a cameraman and pretend to be sexually aroused.
But this girl’s face looks awkward,
her lips too big, something wrong, too pursed,
as though unsure of what to do, perhaps unsatisfied
even with the opportunity of this cover shot,
a big deal for her I’m sure,
for her career, the big screen in Times Square
plunking her down into the street every five minutes.
Something’s wrong with the image though,
with the botched expression of arousal, and it’s sad
that nobody told her
before it got this big, this impossible to redo.
She just waits there on the cover like a big stuffed olive,
the kind a bartender sinks into a top heavy martini glass,
that a waitress carries to a table
and sets down to be sipped idly by a man who dribbles on
about fashion and art as though it were the big thing
he’d just invented, a new designer, a new style—
skewers her with a plastic sword, her big lips pursed
and waiting to be met, helpless to stop it.
This false arousal, this sexual pretense.
Photo By: Helga Weber