What do I know? Answers are subtle.
Check out that ass. I'm sure that butt'll
Tell all: the secrets Spandex keeps, expanded,
Suggest we were born under-handed.
Fistful disclosure, dark, stark abundance,
Reality unbound, might seem redundance
Were it not so that perfect breasts have seams.
Enlarged? Reduced? It's all the stuff of dreams.

We wake. If Darwin’s right, then reproduction’s
Reason why: We do. We die. Liposuction?
Siliconic rhinoplasty? Tummy tuck?
And what of history? Should we not fuck
With the past? Why not become a virgin?
The ten deft digits of a surgeon
Can stop the dyke as sure as rhymin'
Knits a well-made stanza's hymen.

When hard, it's hard to be objective:
Is your affinity elective,
Or are you just glad to see me? Did HMOs
Provide these luscious curves life throws
My way? When is a hottie not a hottie?
I mean, is anybody anti-body?
What do I care? Rock bottoms are rock bottom.
Check that one out. What I know's I can spot 'em.

Daniel Bosch lives and writes in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he also teaches at Harvard University. He won the Boston Review Poetry Prize in 1998.

 Daniel

 Bosch