She is leaning backward against a brick wall, shoulders
pressed, back arching making her breasts
force outward and look

impossible. Her hair is ironed flat, oil-black against
her hollow cheekbones. Doe-fair, eye-wide and wearing false
eyelashes—her lips half open in an awe-struck oh. This was the prize

for being runner up at the Little Miss Rhode Island beauty pageant.
Paid-in-full photoshoot, color prints,
                three different outfits to take home and a consultation
                                with a professional agent. I know the story.

The photographer asks her to undo
                one more button. The beauty consultant handles her
                                jaw, profiles her face
                                                from left to right commenting

on the scar on her nose,
                using his two fingers to spread
                                her lips to look at her pearly,
                                                                         crooked teeth.