And She Sings

I am waiting on the beach
For DeMarco. My body is supple,
Is a stem — but that never describes the curve of it,
Or the way my breasts arise
Like two large melons, ripe and sweet,
To make the appler hungry
(I mean how they roll as I pull my hands across them
Like a plough, turning up the olive skin);
And I am preparing myself, I am a woman
Arched back into a bow, a splash of peach
In a painting, though if Don DeMarco came
It were a poem.