Girls On the Town, 1946

           [Elvira H. D., 1924–2019]

You love a red lip. The dimples are

extra currency, though you take care to keep

powder from caking those charmed valleys.

Mascara: check. Blush? Oh, yes.

And a hat is never wrong

except evenings in the clubs: there

a deeper ruby and smoldering eye

will do the trick, with tiny embellishments—

a ribbon or jewel, perhaps a flower—

if one is feeling especially flirty or sad.

Until Rosie fired up her rivets, flaunting

was a male prerogative; now, you and your girls

have lacquered up and pinned on your tailfeathers,

fit to sally forth and trample each plopped heart

quivering at the tips of your patent-leather

Mary Janes. This is the only power you hold onto,

ripped from the dreams none of you believe

are worth the telling. Instead of mumbling,

why not decorate? Even in dim light

how you glister, sloe-eyed, your smile in flames.