She walks in the open at night
wrapped in white sheets wet from sweat
that darken in every crevasse
by her movement
She speaks in shapes of words
by the phase of the moonglow
and knows she is watched, barely
as she pulls the threads closer
lightly, it was the way she cast
down her eyes
dutifully does not speak
until spoken at
The careless sashay,
the way her hips open
to accommodate the frame
that holds her
Embellished, a facade
shiny with optimism,
buffed and presentable as
Potemkin villages
de mure
But the light from
her being
there shifted and softened
features receptively
In decent she saunters
the skies, timidly taking her place
outside public walls
where no artificial light falls
She sees purely, clearly
she is not needed to light the way
for others to see, but every so often
she brightly becomes
full of herself.
Image by Luis Ricardo Falero [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
