Poem: The Curve

Something in shirtlifterbear's journal reminded me of this poem I wrote a few years back:

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The Curve

There’s a curve that starts
At the base of his neck
A curve drawn with ink and
Scimitar
That mounts his breasts
Tattoos his nipple
And slides (first-snow toboggan)
To the delicate belly

Where the line shakes
As a laugh is coaxed
(“milles pardons”
with tender smirk)
And the torso is mapped
At last

The hairs that descend
Into shadowed regions
Catch at the nib and slow its course
Right at the line where
Innocence and beach decency end
Where the hidden blush of
Lust begins

Pens caress and multiply
For many paths radiate
From the root:
Drawing traceries on Easter eggs
Topographies on rolling mounds
And a slow, groaning spiral
Up the central matter

Geography grows even as it’s mapped
Where will it end?
Will the well run dry?

What does this curve describe?

Awfulness

We're signing a card for a colleague who's going on mat leave, and amusing ourselves contemplating the worst things we could write. I suggested:

Even if your baby turns out really, really ugly, you'll still love each other. Or at least pretend to.