beauty shoppe
facial
“We use Ardena here.” Madame Celeste
Herself in charge, with hot tough-handed licks
To tighten contours (Nature wearying)
Or to release a ropy ruggedness.
Her stomach sitting softly on her lap,
Our Mrs. Breck awaits the miracle.
Pimples must mash themselves in, blotches fade,
Crepe shudder out to satin. Nothing less.
Only a facial. But won’t she withdraw
In Beauty, her two centuries of pounds
Shucked to a sweet one-fifty, little eyes
Enormous, lit, and dewy as a doe’s?
Madame Celeste works with a wordless haste.
And in an hour our big bird’s fixed and flown,
Having paid for what she wants to be. Guilty
With invisible Beauty, up the street she goes.
manicure
He’s betting on it this yellow mellow bit
Is buyable. Regal or Met, he’d say,
A Gordon’s Dry at the Tavern. And she’s got.
Her signals call. The undernourished brows.
The red fat smudge that won’t make up its mind
Whether to nip nose, chin, or both together.
The face snowed under. The irresolute modesty.
Those eyes—Mayhap this chick is on the House!
To the approach. Outrageous? guy-gallant?
Paternal? frosty-with-the-heart-of-fire?
Already, this hors-d’oeuvre is in the teeth,
And all a brother has to do is bite.
Ready! ... Aim! ... Fire! The glass eyes break. The red
Fat moves and melts. Brows rise in lean surprise.
Bosom awakes. Maybe, she says. She might.
Well, possibly .... Well, call at nine tonight.
shampoo-press-hot-oil-&-croquignole
(the smoking iron)
Lay it on lightly, lay it on with heed.
Because it took that stuff so long to grow.
Notes:
The portfolio this poem is part of is comprised of selections from a new seventy-fifth anniversary edition of Annie Allen (Brooks Permissions, 2024), and published here by permission of Nora Brooks Blakely. You can read the rest of the portfolio in the September 2024 issue.
Source: Poetry (September 2024)