With Apologies to Poor Will
My eyes are nothing like the sun.
My lips are neither coral
nor are they red.
My breast is nowhere near as white as snow
and time has all but faded the roses from my cheek.
My feet tread heavily upon the ground.
And though you say you love my voice,
I cannot in truth, carry a tune.
And yet by Heaven,
this morning,
upon waking,
you kissed my morning breath,
ran your fingers through
the black wires that grow on my head,
and you called me Goddess.
Lindsay Riggs Brown
No comments:
Post a Comment