Beneath her peachy skin, she hides it well,
and only on one cheek is it revealed:
her dimple—a tiny silver bell
that trills in high C when she feels
a tremolo of mischief touch her lips,
the pucker of a new joke’s tartness,
the tingle of her own deliciousness.
Until then, the dimple hides, waiting,
inside a box, faintly dangerous.
Subconsciously, she knows that in the future
the dimple will have power to seduce,
and beauty is a weapon, if it suits her.
But now, she smiles, and cartwheels fill her face;
she laughs, and the dimple resonates.