Fphat (or, “Ang Taba Mo Na”)

She claimed
to be stating nothing
more than a matter-of-fact
but she said it with such disdain,
such venomous disdain,
that even the after
math of the words conjured

images:

physiologically impossible
Barbaras
(Walterses?
Simmonses?
Williamses?
Any other American Idolses?
Ah, Robertses!)
tantalizing, tittilating
children with dreams
of the inedible, unreachable
waist (line? lying?)
and Feet that Weren’t Made for Walking
(and that’s just what they wont–to?–do,
for fear their heels look like clown boots),

of models,
spilling Victoria’s Secrets
(all the black and white of them)
to the world in the way they
strut: (a-one-and-a-two-and-a-three)
one-perfect-foot-in-front-of-another
so that their hips sway
this time captivating those
old enough to buy their
own underwear,
those who know
that they are deep enough
down the rabbit hole
when they slip
into size 23s that slip
off just as easily.

All this venom.
Such a many-headed snake.

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