All
who have seen her
swear they have never seen her
happier, lately
while she laughs, letting crickets go.
Her curves always know
how to smooth things out
and the way she walks begs forgiveness
as her karma rounds
every corner.
Softness was her style
to say it supply-
it could stem from her blooming chest,
crimson raw cheeks, her velvet bleeding lips
or lilac silvery strands
her glare goes right through any apparitions and by
body, somehow she knows the bright angles
to the long equations...
At night she paints
the smudged sky on her arms.
Before sunrise she weaves weak
words stained black. They don't smear-
she won't use them-in the light by day
she tends to others angles
in her smooth parabolic way.
It seems she just sashays away,
her every day face
acting as the fulcrum for all others
a round nowhere to stick
around.
Painting by Edgar Degas, After the Bath, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
