Crystallized with more energy

than James Brown,

she’s a wildfire, who dances away

from hands that long to hold her.

Uniquely conscious, she searches

for the key to unlock the door

of the great mystery.

Deprived of mothering, she plunges

into dancing to keep from crying;

moving until flying,

she restores her equanimity.

Although she sets men’s hearts ablaze,

she’s as cool as a Madam Alexander Doll

wrapped in cellophane.

The portal to her soul sealed,

keeping hairy-knuckled hands at bay.

The slender curve of her belly,

and giggles of laughter, only for show;

a museum diorama: You can look, but not touch.

She walks runways with the visage of a mannequin,

bracing for the zephyrs of Zanzibar,

but not a trickle of blood will ever flow

in the labyrinth of runways in her heart.

She slithers away from the adoring gaze

of men who might turn into Gregor Samsa.