Like the pin-up on the calendar
in the neighborhood garage
she feels male eyes as if they
were fingers greasy from car parts
rub over her body. They linger
on bumps that seem mountainous,
probe like dirty wires into folds and crevices,
laser with surgeon’s skill
on every mole and blemish.
She’s new to the game,
hasn’t picked up the model’s saucy strut,
the flare of the toreador’s cape
as she unveils her flesh.
The camera loves the sweet young package.
The man who promised her fame
at a so-called chance meeting
leers behind the lens,
ignores the naked terror
trapped in her eyes.
About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.