Each woman walking by,
so tailored, so polished,
each the result of long-practiced art
and well-honed craft,
steps serenely,
a work of art.

Gleaming stockinged calves
and piled shimmering hair
the sparkle of jewelry
a smile
a glossy eye
and colors painted deeply
with a subtle brush --
how fleeting is the vision.
How fragile
is a work meant to be seen
only for a day --
only to be
struck apart in pieces
like a stage set --
only to be rebuilt again tomorrow
and, of course, tomorrow
and again.

The ritual of this art,
the worship of one body
to make it shine as though there are no others
in this crowded world
comes not from love
and not from pride
or joy.
It comes from shame,
and then it comes by rote.
It comes as something learned young,

a disparagement of the real
a hatred of flaws
a desire to attract more than can be held
(in case a need arises)

And yet the metamorphosis
the birth
each day
from hours of concentration
or a few quick tricks

is of the despised real
into something
which can be seen without shame,
which can maybe even be
loved.

by Sara, copyright 1999, all rights reserved