I’ll only know if I’m thin enough
when you’ve got me flattened
out and replicated in
the viewfinder of my
best friend’s point and
shoot, posed hand
on my hip again, chin
up and to the right,
the good side. Put me
on your left. It’s when I look best and
I look best when I look skinny.
On a day much like this
we were born out of
tubes of mascara, we reached
our tiny arms out to pretty faces
our fingers clung, wet with turpentine and
and there we stayed, heavy
over luminous eyes, like storm clouds
until the ocean bled us out.
Take a picture of us.
We lay face down, bodies eating
heat, backs exposed, bathing
-suits untied, free to fry
our membranes in seething emissions
from the sky. The kind
that fractures our aviators, scalds
our pores and our telephones. You know
it’s a proven fact that tanning is
slimming, I read it
in a magazine.
And I learned from mother web
how to stand
in a bikini. To look
up through lashes, suck
your stomach in and make sure
I’m on the left even if
that’s your good side, too.
The girl behind the camera,
slowly, and at distance to the moment
in which her finger lies miles from the trigger
becomes a girl-shaped cloud, and floats.
We are beautiful.