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A woman like that
does not exist on any sofa
no matter how soft
or affordable or white.
Page 41 is a beautiful lie
warmed by the California coastline
seen through those
whitewashed French doors,
open to the sugary sands.
It isn’t hard to believe
in the length of her hair
or the highlights that shine
with an angelic glow.
But isn’t skin, up close, always
pitted with disappointment?
And that book she’s holding,
I can only hope it’s a prop—
a silly vampire novel
or a dime store romance
which surely pales
when compared to her own reality—
exhilarating and charmed.
We mere mortals
exist in houses on another page
in another state
equipped only with our wit
and our deep thoughts
to entice our lovers
on the languid afternoons
when we secretly hope
that women like her don’t read Pinker’s
“How the Mind Works”
in their spare time
or work toward law degrees
from Harvard.
We are unable to imagine the luck
of being awarded brains too
with those thighs as long and smooth
as our lover’s dream.
My envy
isn’t a wish for hardship or harm,
just that she can’t cook
and that she goes home tired
to a second hand couch.

DeMaris Gaunt
1-11-15

Photo by Deanna Morae