Model

She was the type of woman who'd slip 
    an entire block of butter into a pot 
of spaghetti sauce. She was the type 
    who laughingly said, as you ate forkful 
after forkful: You should think of marrying 
    an Italian when you grow up. She would say,
with neither hint of irony nor malice, 
    That's where, if you're a beautiful woman, 
they'll pinch your behind. She never forgot
    to put blush where it would most emphasize
her high cheekbones, never forgot scoop
    necklines best showed off her Audrey 
Hepburn neck, her chiseled clavicle.  
    Though you had the same shoe size, 
you could never fit your wide, flat feet 
    into her pointy-toe kitten heels. Your calves,
shapely as yams; but your fingers, not shying  
    away from her lessons— scaling and gutting  
fish, severing the joints and vertebra of fowl.