whether Your veins flow in shades of
they hold magic sweeter than any fruit,
stringing Your body like a precious pearl.
I hope Your heart offers a beat
to which You can freely sing
if it doesn’t
know that Your words are dressed
only with loveliness
because who can resist someone
so lusciously entrusted
with the power of existence?
if they shoot “thunder thighs”
it is because their understanding
is clouded by the roaring of Your own.
Your eyes are so much more than the color
they are sweet molasses dollops,
a one hundred year-old oak,
than what lies beneath feet,
to be stepped upon, squished
worthless toe jam.
Your skin will never be ivory,
but why dream of
being something so hard,
when You are soft, malleable,
composing a symphony of elements
that far outnumber the sad strums
of brittle solid?
Self-love will present Herself
(at first a cautionary tale
“do not become vain”)
allow Her in,
take Her coat,
She will point out the way in which
can mimic the pattern
of Your birthmarks.
She will take Your hand and press it to Your neck
allowing the blood
to drum a lilting lullaby.
She will graze the blister on Your ankle
marking the places you have been
and what You had endured to get there
(to get here)
and She will kiss Your cheek,
leaving a magnificent stain,
as though a mirror all along,
as though a