Perhaps She is the Thumbprint of Some Wayward Queen

..
You say to talk about her in a new way
and I must tell you I am exhausted. She
exhausts me. My nouns. My verbs. My
inky veins. I have quilled her a thou
-sand poems in paper sky, and still she
haunts my words, and curls them with
her crescent smile. She’s bold, and bossy.

I have tossed her loose into the sea and
seen her bobble-float, and sink. I think
she prefers a west-coast fading sky, but
there’s a good chance that’s just me. I
put words in her pretty pearly mouth an
awful lot, like she’s my sister, some friend
I pretend to know better than I do. You

might think I would tire of all this luna
-sea, but drowning in her flashlight
borrowed glow is enough for me. And too
much. And never enough. And all the
madness in between. She’s new and blue
and bloody and full and fat and foolish
enough to think she’s got her own glow.

I know. She doesn’t. But she’ll fool you
twice (shame on you), glue you to her mar
-bled glee and make you howl for more.
She’s part of some eternal ivory ellipses
that never quite finishes, wraps itself
around the horizon and dot-dashes back
for another round of threaded tag –

hide and seek. Sneak a look at her now,
for dawn-dazzled, she’ll be gone again,
snuck away in her own tear-streaked
aubade, a goddess in a midnight silk
dress, tressed in stars and all the sirens
of this ebony ceiling sea, singing something
you can’t quite catch, or hold. Unfolding.

..
Prompted by Poets United. Come play! 

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