Sotah's School of Beauty    

I.

As a young girl
I used to study
the definitions.  
Body a sphere
that walks around
waterlogged,
eating pretzels with mustard.
Beauty a hologram
spinning onstage,
white light whipped to cream.
Time a crack in a mirror
that changes your face
when you look.  

II.

I was fifteen
when you called me woman,
we toasted to the adolescent I was.
Like a pair of exotic fruits
that could not breed
when placed together.  
Beauty.
In a casket made of willow.
I could not beat it.
I could not bear it.
Time the adulterer:
a delay in glass, a decay.


III.

My students visit me in the basement.
I hand each one a small well
of ground-up letters
the color of crushed pearl,
a cream base for lids.
We study the magic of powder,
shadow, wand, brush
until beauty beats their faces
with its little tendrils
and red butterflies
settle on their cheeks.  
Let my thighs sag, girls,
let my belly distend.  
Let me teach you about beauty:
a slanted shipwreck
draped in its own torn sails.