Crystallized with more energy
than the shimmy shuffle of James Brown,
she’s a wildfire, who dances away from hands
that long to hold her.

Radiant, iridescent, immersed in consciousness,
she searches for a key to unlock an esoteric door
of the great mystery.

Deprived of mothers’ milk,
she plunges into running to keep from crying;
sprinting until flying, restores her equanimity.

Although she sets men’s hearts ablaze,
she’s as cool as Madam Alexander
wrapped in cellophane.

The portal to her soul is sealed,
keeping hairy knuckled fingers at bay.

The curve of her belly and the giggles of laughter
is only for show; a museum diorama,
you can look, but not touch

She walks the runways with the visage of a mannequin,
bracing for winds of the zephyrs of Zanzibar.

But not a whisper of blood will ever flow
in the labyrinth of runways from her heart.

She slithers away from the adoring gaze
of men who might turn into Gregor Samsa.