She might have bathed
in milk, worn a six-foot feathered 

headdress, glittered 
before the footlights in pearls 

and paste—it’s said Ziegfeld 
asked her. Who could blame him

with the evidence she left?
In black and white, bare 

hint of a smile, her long, 
white neck. A gypsy 

headscarf frames her wide 
grey eyes with moons, she holds 

a tambourine. Dancer’s  
legs descend from tulle.

She wrapped her toe shoes, 
instead, in their long, satin 

ribbons, tucked them in her bureau 
for us to find. Wed her childhood 

sweetheart, future chocolate impresario, 
my father’s father, charm to spare.

Then daubed her creamy skin 
with cocoa butter to better catch the sun.