Her dress is red as blood pooled where the light
can make it glisten. Mischief in her eyes
more than allure, feigns innocent surprise
that we are looking at her. Latex tight
on skin. Her buttocks a pure aching curve
that eyes stroke, drawn there with a magnet’s force.
We go on looking, even though remorse
is part of lust. Her naked arms deserve
a poem to themselves – they are that song
extended line that covers yet implies
her breasts, just as the dress shows us her thighs
while hiding them. We know we do her wrong
in staring. She stares back. It’s only just
that she should challenge our still gazing lust.