What your missing plinth
probably says: This body
of mathematic proportion,
angular contrasts of oceanic
waves around hips and breasts,
cleverness in the bridge’s straight
line, a perfect ninety chiseled
to snare. The proof that snares
men. Another mold, Aunt C
loved to lick her lips behind the bar
as she spoke in such equations
a boy is supposed to get lost
within. She was vicious
with inequalities, speaking
of Mr. X being greater than
Y and Z in all the right areas.
Blunt to the end product,
despite my ears singling
her voluptuous speech over
the nine-ball break, pinball circus.
She wanted somebody to die
with, even a man found
to have fathered seven sinless
devils down in Georgia. Dead
days like that, tagalongs
with Mother thrilled me
a woman doesn’t always
have the arms to shade
from the disgustingness
of beauty.