Old Eight-by-Ten Glossy

Her eyebrows are raised 
and seem to hold the rest of her features taut, 
like the bars that hold the strings of a marionette. 
"Listen," I say, and her face opens a little. 
"Speak up," I say, and she does: I don't like 
this pose, she says to the photographer, 
and musses her hair, and smells the smell 
of that place which is stuffy and stale 
as he is. Last night, the two guys 
went down to the alley and fought 
about her. She didn't go. Too nice 
for that, too good, always, but now I let 
her go down, and bite her knuckles, 
and root for one of them, for both 
of them. She even begins to laugh 
 at herself 
(too wide, too big, the photographer says, 
but she laughs anyway—even with her nostrils 
that flare like a horse's, even with her canine 
teeth they say are too big and pointy). 
I tell her to follow the two guys to the bar 
afterwards, and she does, agreeing 
with them when they say she's a bitch, agreeing 
that she's vain and flighty and wild, 
yes, and dopey and shy and whatever, 
like the rest of us. I tell her that now 
and she smiles, she laughs, and snap, 
the photographer gets it, though it's hard 
when there's so much life, almost a moving 
picture.