Baby Face

Come here, she says.
Let me look in your pocket.
Her face blooms like a poppy
Once,
Twice,
Thrice.
Her eyes sing red notes
As she glances at his fingers,
Stained papery with green.

Young, decent women fling out their hands
And never see anything like it
In the name of Womankind.
She walks in slick measures,
Turns to smile at the man
With her paycheck;
Her promotion.

Her shoulders drip heavily
With silver and gold
As she climbs another staircase
And greets another man.

—

Marie G. Hofmann is currently a second year creative writing student at the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee.