Lipstick, shadow, liner—all she needs,
the finest-looking woman in the world,
Angelina Jolie, bare-shinned, unshod
(a glossy two-page colour spread),
sitting on a wooden dock that splinters
out towards brackish Asian marsh.
Mangroves rise on stilts above
this coastal wetland, where river
meets sea, fresh water meets salt
(mangroves drink them both).
She’s eyeballed, watched by things above and things beneath—
proboscis monkeys, fishing cats, saltwater crocs.
But she’s oblivious (and probably
impervious) to hidden, unseen life,
her right leg half-curled under her,
her left a delta over it,
her right hand resting on her knee.
She wears a finely woven taupe silk blouse,
and khaki linen trousers, cropped and rolled.
No bling—no necklace, bracelets, watch, or rings.
No polish on her nails.
Her hair untamed and tucked behind one ear.
Her eyes, however, smoulder smoky kohl.
Her parted pillow lips glow luminescent pink.
Lipstick, shadow, liner—all she needs.