Because her beauty shocked,
akin to starlet autopsy photos
or the Black Dahlia,
everything flattered her,
Butterick pattern dresses,
tin combs in her dark waves
and in the light of every gaze
receiving a blush-pumping smile,

you could almost divide
your attention from the glory
of her sister growing from
her torso: twisting in the gap
of two parted pearl buttons,
a pair of nymphet legs, feet
sporting white ankle socks
and Mary Janes - the soles gleamed.
During the depression they made
forty grand a week,
between the two of them.

It wasn't that bad, answering
the row of eyes noon to midnight,
sister asleep in her chest cavity
kicking at the occasional dream
of a separate body. Even
the stubbornest onlooker ejected
his popcorn in surprise. No matter
if they lined up in ties or coveralls,
most were bald, sharing the plague
of pointy heads and uncontrollable
erection disorder, not to mention
symptoms of bug-eye and the shakes,
the ravages of carnal love.
It was quite a spectacle to fog up
the house of mirrors: see
oily men leer at her two pairs
of supple legs, crossed as she
sipped a Coke, her image reflected
around the tent as she
posed for every pane of glass
and made precise eye contact.
She loved how each man
had a matching woman
equally ruddy or pale.

She bit her tongue in the shadows
like a lady, positioning
her sister for photographers
and blinking from the mansion's view,
secluded high up with the sun
and sitting on the fortune from
everyone's kitchen jar,
the hard labor of others.