Two women stand shirtless and stare,
one hand on hips, the other
over nose and mouth, one breast
exposed on each as if posed for this
exposure in the jungle, the green
along the bank of the Alto Madre de Dios
as backdrop. They stand like models,
uncontacted members of the Mashco-Piro
tribe, black hair in that Farrah Fawcett wave
with bangs, strap of fabric low on hips.
I looked at such an image of women
in National Geographic once, as a girl,
marveled at the pointy, sagging breasts,
dark nipples, so unnaturally natural.
Their eyes were iron. No, their eyes
were rubber, mahogany, made of what
gets stolen to manufacture, made of
what we bear to lose. Eyes like Eve after
the garden, eyes like Bathsheba
after David, eyes like Mary after Friday.
I am the mother of a soon-to-be-
blossoming daughter raised in a culture
of curvelessness and sex and skin,
evanescence like cherries submerged
in soda water. She will be told to be pretty,
but not too pretty, strong and athletic
but not sexual. Do not invite the prowling eyes
of every teenage boy with no control
over his testosterone. Your body
is dangerous, says culture, so we measure
fingertip length shorts and wide-strapped
tank-tops but take selfies, make kissy faces
at the camera and hide our eyes
behind dark sunglasses.
Farrah Fawcett’s iconic poster pin-up
sold 20 million copies. It’s a one-piece
swimsuit with nipples small and hard,
breasts full, grin wide and white and clenched.
It almost looks fake, that smile, the way
she looks out of the corner of her eye
like get this damn photo shoot over now
or I’ll rip my wavy hair right out. All
things considered, it’s a modest swimsuit,
so what is it they hunger after but
the suggestion of sex, the radical grin,
the promise of that degree of happiness
just out of reach, just underneath spandex.
At least we’re human; at least we’re not consumed
the way the small, carnivorous marsupial
of Australia spends all its time mating,
fighting over females, poisoning itself
with testosterone until the males’ immunity
fails, so hot for her it’s fatal. In their year
of life, Antechinus have sex to death.
It’s the same with mantises, another species
keen to sacrifice its mates for the future
of its kind. Come hither, she beckons
with her big eyes and praying hands
and he can’t help himself, he comes. You
did this to me, the female shrieks and eats
him after. Not even this deters him.
You know, Fawcett arranged the photo shoot,
did her own makeup and hair with no mirror
and selected for herself her six favorite pictures,
including the one that made her famous.
Maybe her grin is clenched in power, maybe
she knows the eyes are windows to the soul.
Inside, the boys’ testosterone boils.
These dark women, what are they hiding
under their palms but noses and mouths.
Their eyes yield stories. Take only this.
Look at me. There is so much more you cannot see.
Sarah M. Wells is the author of Pruning Burning Bushes and a chapbook of poems, Acquiesce. Essays published in Ascent, Brevity, The Pinch, River Teeth, and Under the Gum Tree have been honored as Notable Essays in Best American Essays 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, and 2017. Wells is the Director of Content Marketing for Spire Advertising.