Ode to the Woman-Child Aesthetic

Because it’s scorching, and I bruise easily,
I’ve got two Band-Aids, one on each knee,
short shorts, tanned legs in the Arizona heat,
reminding me of nineties runways of hot girls
wearing babydolls and heavy liner and boots—
kinderwhore fashionista Venuses born from chocolate
eggs of the sort of sweet dark variety or the too
sweet white cocoa, because there is no in-between,
and what a beautiful surprise, making Botticelli
proud, and was he dreamy, I wonder, because I heard
Raphael was quite the ladies’ man, but who really cares
about those two when you’ve got art come to life: actresses
at the Met Gala walking those steps with the Sistine Chapel
painted on their gowns, and these kinderwhore goddesses
rise from candy eggs, their Godiva hair bleached,
a little messy, red lipstick reapplied after biting,
and oh baby, baby, baby, have you ever left a ring of rouge
on your man while he’s standing up, marking your territory,
making his dreams and nightmares come true, and repeat,
repeat, repeat, these kinderwhore Venuses are ready for a little
destruction in their Peter Pan collars and Mary Janes
and beautiful women of beautiful dolls of good girls
with smeared makeup, smashing guitars on stage,
or straight-up conquering the whole world—the center
of the universe, the 1960s B-movie so bad it’s so damn
good it interrupts your makeout session with the hottest
girl in school at the drive-in, and get up, get her more
popcorn, a cherry cola to put over her breast, and these women
deserve everything and a dozen of the best pastries—
naughty babes in good girl clothes, and in this Arizona heat,
I really could use a cherry cola over my breast, and a friend
sees my bandages, saying, “Wow, I haven’t seen this look
on someone over the age of ten in a while,” laughing,
and I hate jokes about girls on their knees, but I love
being the naughty type, the woman child in her shorts
running around, her lover wrestling her to the ground,
and let’s have a playful romp because we only live once,
and my father hates it when I wear shorts because they make
me look like I’m a child, and that’s the point, Dad,
I spread my legs however I please in boardrooms
and meetings, and how fun, to take control, jump
on a desk, holding a ruler in your fourth-grade outfit,
and I love this power because you don’t suspect a thing,
and I’m oh so innocent, and my friend Molly agrees—
it’s woman child, it’s kinderwhore, it’s the girl-next-door
only she’s moved, and let’s all fall back in love
with our fourth-grade outfits, because we are women,
little tomboy troublemakers, and more power to you
because you’ve got the loveliest innocent looking face, honey,
and oh, slam that ruler, slam it real hard.