Poetry Friday: The Collected Works of Susan Ramsey
This one's going out to the ladies and lad-inclined boys out there. It's a sonnet, hitherto unpublished with an honest-to-god kidlit reference smuggled in there.
Down at the shop we call them Junior Mints.
Just a tongue-tip of sugar and eyelashes,
chocolate and cheeks and mint and muscled forearms,
broad shoulders tapering down to the hollowed
small of their backs under baggy t-shirts.
They're Junior Mints because you wouldn't want
to make a meal of them, have to hear them talk.
There's no nutrition there, no tendon, fiber
into which to sink long, yellow teeth
and hold on, bucking--
just a smear of sweetness
to idly smash against the roof of your mouth
We stare at them from under level brows
or with one eyebrow cocked ironically
all we want. We are invisible
to them, their mother's or grandmother's age.
We look them over. We are not their mothers.
You could eat a whole boxful, thinking of something else,
and never even notice what you were doing,
until you shook its hollowness, surprised.
Hansel had a delectable lower lip.