An aura of glowing sunlight seems to hover
around where they stand laughing
in the hallway
as bubblegum sighs are released
from between thin glossy lips.

They are displaced from the world
like projections of light that don’t quite possess
the solid imperfection of life, armed as they are
with the enchanting pink fingers,
the charming little barrettes
that tame stray wisps of feathery hair.

Women in trapped in girl's clothing,
unable to divorce from
the white little shirt
that shapes the small breasts, or
the starchy pleated skirts
that expose soft, chubby thighs
whose baby flesh glows in the dark,
catching the lingering eye.

There is no reprieve
for the men who follow in flocks,
drawn to the lithe, hairless arms
captivated by the blush
of bare curving legs:
the age for the sapling to be captured
just before the first flower blooms,
the frozen instant in which
girls are women
without the hard eyes
of tearful years
and women are girls
without the shame of infancy.

The child-goddesses gaze at the world
between smoky mascara lashes
and blue-tinted eyes,
with white socks pure from sin
below the provocative pink skirt
that creeps upward
at a snail’s agonizing pace…
until the moment passes
and the candy laughter is gone.