Lady

The same sun that whitewashes the concrete

below her inch-thick soles slides long shadows

under the edge of her charcoal duster,

which dangles about her ankles like bat wings.

The light throws her towering heels into relief,

rendering them even more monstrous,

frosting the deep inkiness of her boots,

highlighting each fold, crease, seam from sharp toe

to shin before the leather straightens and smoothes,

ascending her calf until taut, shiny.

From the top of the shaft, her denim-clad

knee emerges, bent, points arrow-like

to the word on the van’s side: “Hyundai.”

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony W. Artuso

CandiHeels

She regards us over her shoulder --

blue eyes, red lips -- through the parted curtain

of frosted locks. Left hand rests on the edge

of the Corvette’s open boot, cherry-tipped

talons as stark against the lacquered black

chassis as the ruby taillights that flank

the hem of her brief onyx minidress.

From darkness beneath the folds, stocking seams,

like a highway double line, race down,

past a coy California plate that coos

“UH OOH,” gleaming rear fender, exhaust pipes

that stare like some four-eyed monster past

ankles that end in lustrous ebony stilettos

bracketed left and right by tire treads.

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony W. Artuso

Frames

Even without the flash to give her eyes a demonic
cast, you can see the one on the left’s always
being told by the coach to pay attention.

The teen focuses on the ceiling, her mouth
stretched in the widest possible grin, light
sparking off lipstick, ebony top, shorts,

medal dangling down her chest. Atop her head,
hair spurts from a scrunchie; bobby-pins tame
the locks of her friend on the right. This girl

regards the lens coolly, her mouths’ full bow
juicy, scarlet. Behind her left shoulder,
the red Samsung camera held by a teammate

displays the duo in miniature.
This photographer is known to us only
by her wrist and hand because the framer

of the larger picture has cut her out,
leaving us to speculate on the happy chaos
that bathes these cheerleaders after the contest:

siblings texting, aunties cooing, boyfriends
shuffling, moms commanding, dads ruefully
calculating number of trips to the car

as they eye sneakers, uniforms, cases
piled in the photo’s lower right-hand corner.

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony W. Artuso

To the Pictured Photographer

Your bare knees – exposed between your black skirt’s
hem and laced tops of combat boots – are bent,
crouched for a leap; your blue-bloused torso leans
back as if your slight pack pulled your shoulders;
elbows forward; camera held to your eye.

Your pal’s ebony boots disappear beneath
her ankle-length denim dress. Her hands hang
at her waist as she waits, rucksack at the ready
to continue your urban hike. You both
gaze out of the frame fascinated – by

what we’ll never know since your photographer
focused solely on you, unwitting models
for his boot-lovers’ Web site. Your friend’s face
has been digitally erased to protect
her privacy, but yours is unretouched,

your features still intact behind your lens,
which, by obscuring it, saved your visage.

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony W. Artuso