Each girl eats her own eyeballs,
floating heels,
confidence-padded into breasts,
kettle-mouth lips
blow off the steam of male gaze;
in a market world women are
crafts.
Her designer labels with absolute names
the reason for her aching ankles
becomes the shame,
beauty the reason for the spare time
becomes the shame.
The horde’s hoot hang to her feet
as she flees from a body being stripped
of a dress that homes
shame.
When a girl discovers she’s dressed in disgrace—
wearing a blemish no foundation
power
can hide—she moves away from
herself.
The market stalls are no shelter for men,
trading in leers that rush after short skirts
teeth spaced for the
tongue to wag;
there’s no signpost to read their
folly.
Here are men who once
bargained with brains
now they trade their hearts
as ignorance wares.
And when tongues rip the cloth
off the girl
the shredding men’s eyes will go
home
to cover a sister, a mother, or a
partner
shame them with another
performance
a poor showman of his market
failing
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