February 21, 2004


Draped in pink linen
and white lace,
seams pressed to
razor-fine edges
slice the inside of my
reminding me to behave.

a layer beneath
no one sees
just how low
the crotch of my tights
hangs, rebellion
between the thighs
not every bit a lady.

I lived to run ragged
trade patent leather prisons
for blades of grass
pressed tight between my thumbs,
cross legged on a bale of straw
calling to the orioles.

Come down, come down.

I am their splendor
black against orange,
cascading clash of colors
dipping and climbing
among the pines.

You had to know
I would go.