The Model Talks Back

You squander equanimity! –
the chalice of your balance spills –

abruptly gushes out like some small grand
tsunami to recede immediately into

drought. I’ll try not to pout: this is the way
most human essence issues from the spout:

as gluttonous and wasteful and distasteful
as an eighteenth century aristocrat

with gout. Look at the easy rhymes
your essence now insists upon! –

who cares what’s skewed or lewd
or rude or so indifferently reviewed that hands

become the size of foreign lands
and feet become two atavistic creatures

flopping out and turning blue, about to atrophy.
And what the heck, I guess, to what you’ve

just done to my neck – and all the rest of me.
I am your colored pencils’ latest rash

catastrophe. And that sweet little smile
and ragged bits of outlined reddish hair!

Oh well, at least you dare.
If not exactly care.

.