Her gargantuan undergarments
are actually kind of tiny.
The squelch of her rainboots
make terrorism seem somehow okay.
When she squinches her face like that,
it is impossible not to dream
of ducklings that very evening.
Even the beeps of a bulldozer
backing up sound adorably vulnerable
when she is in eyeshot and they in earshot.
Her teeth are to her mouth
what her hips are to her figure:
instruments of alarming harmony
and insurmountable relief.
When she eats dried papaya,
the color orange brightens
all over the planet, so much so
that ordinary ponchos
render schoolchildren blind.