Female Anatomy

A small death every time
You saw one outside
Of her trouser role
Signing autographs in a blustery cursive
There by the koi pond

The big one with its constant
Eye fixed upward
As if asking the question on
Everyone’s mind that evening.
The clock tower

Suddenly lit with dongs.
And there’s the mailman
Cutting through the graveyard
And the tumultuous poison ivy
Lurking on the playground

Striking the thighs
Of the pretty young thing come
To sort out the direction
Of their relationship
The weathervane pointing south.