We spend such agony labeling the blush,
Imposing guilt behind those ruddy cheeks.
Embarrassment, we say, and its sudden rush
Of crimson to the face must (we suspect) speak

Out some vital secret, the moment when
Confession lets loose a woman’s awkward sin,
And hearing it aloud, her skin goes red, more thin.

But really all this business over flush
Stems from the wind; I’m cold, then hot; I blush.
Embarrassment, all this talk of emotion,
It’s nothing but a simple contraction
Of capillaries which dermatologists
Who – I remind you – are not psychologists
Call vasodilatation. There, the reason.