her eyes are baby Draculas

In the fine print of her face 

Her eyes are two loopholes. 

No, let me start again. 

Her eyes are flies in milk, 

Her eyes are baby Draculas. 

 

To hell with her eyes. 

Let me tell you about her mouth. 

Her mouth's the red cottage 

Where the wolf ate grandma. 

 

Ah, forget about her mouth, 

Let me talk about her breasts. 

I get a peek at them now and then 

And even that's more than enough 

To make me lose my head, 

So I better tell you about her legs. 

 

When she crosses them on the sofa 

It's like the jailer unwrapping a parcel 

And in that parcel is a Christmas cake 

And in that cake a sweet little file 

That gasps her name as it files my chains. 

 

[Charles Simic {1938-2023} 'My Beloved', from New and Selected Poems 1962-2012]