Give Me Dimples, Or Give Me Death

Give me the face with shyest dimples; to have

The sun pound against the doors of chefs who

Deign to orchestrate women’s spoons to make

A song from teeth as yellow as the sky is blue.

Be willing, bald bird of crooked nose, to smile

Without hovering your hands to hide the few

Jagged bones that scream to at last be seen, by

A lover that loves not love nor looks, but you.