I went to a ladies night on Wednesday. It was sweet and uncluttered with expectations. In attendance were some of my closest friends, a few good friends, a handful of acquaintances, a couple coworkers, and total strangers. By the end of the night, I'd briefly greeted my closest friends, caught up with my good friends, had connection-strengthening conversations with some acquaintances, teased some coworkers, and got to know two total strangers--then ended up going to Guns N' Chicken (the best-named bar in the BVI) with them and my dear friend Emma. During the course of the evening at the Spa at Scrub Island (where the event was being held), I got a hand massage. This poem is about hand models.
The most desired models look to have
no bones. They want to show the skin, that’s all:
the conch pink palms, a wrist of wet, taupe clay
atop a potter’s wheel. Their skeletons
must be forgotten, so if anything
but smooth appears, it’s airbrushed out to make
them seem unnaturally natural.
The money’s in the muting. I see through
them like an X-ray, past the spongy, blurred
facade into the hard, white frame beneath.