closed, shrouded, pitch and matte –
locked –
locks, sheared from their scalp –
no bauble, glint or flash of bright –
shaded eye –
sealed, concealed mouth –
no evidence offered for her in the moonlight –
she –
her own shadow –––shock to heart and soul anew –
gold dust painted to her cheek –
bosom, nape of ankle and tender feet –
all a shimmer, a prick of timbre –
listen to her tune, a flirty swoon –
sprightly steps, festooned with shells and bells –
all manner of wonderment about her –
hips –
hips and thighs –
that once did plod, and trod, and stamp –
upon the busted hearts –
of those who should not have stolen her light –
usurped her rite –
littered her proscenium stage –––admire how she claims her arena –
cradles each bloody, beating balloon to hand –
weights it and measures, concluding –
foot and eyebrows sprung –
to toss aloft, away –
the past’s painful particulate –
to be –
precipitate-free –
shine without fog –
dance without distance –
inspire, never tire –
she –
her own muse –––revel in the surface of her sun –
look with care, beyond first glare –
fertile valleys clearly there –
burnt umber and grayish green –
amid the glow, a scattered hazy snow –
beauty spots, character dots –
a sparkling freckle –
of all those cast-up broken hearts –
fueling her ascensionYou’ve never seen an Iago like Aimee McCrary. Never!