Woman Me

Your smile, delicate rumor of peace. Deafening revolutions nestle in the cleavage of your breasts. Beggar-Kings and red-ringed Priests seek glory at the meeting of your thighs. A grasp of Lions. A lap of Lambs. Your tears, jeweled strewn a diadem caused Pharaohs to ride deep in the bosom of the Nile. Southern spas lash fast their doors upon the night when winds of death blow down your name A bride of hurricanes. A swarm of summer wind. Your laughter, pealing tall above the bells of ruined cathedrals. Children reach between your teeth for charts to live their lives. A stomp of feet. A bevy of swift hands.