poem: those people are like art, dead but beautiful

little girl, in the red skirt, in the impressionist

painting outside my window: the sky is thick

with cocoa beans, the clouds are wild.

 

her mother picks

at the flower-dust in her

hair.

they have halos, they are goddesses

spun out in starry nights, relics from when

the world was young

and girls waited for boys at stone

windows.

 

I remember when girls were women:

feminine and frozen

in dead art. skirts dripping gold

around their legs,

their eyes too-big

and almost ready for lust, for love,

for life: it all

 

came with a boy. little girl outside, i hope

you never know

what your world is missing.

 

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