albeit very rough


I am beautiful, no matter
what the bathroom scale tells me.
My eyes shine like Tiffany glass as
the knowledge blazes behind them.
My mind afire like a solstice ritual,
stars calling forth ideas like floating embers flown up
to the heavens as an offering.
My lips twist in
a sly smile and a promise
of song that may spill forth
clear and strong as a summer morning;
or laughter louder than one would expect,
if one judged the compulsion of joy by
the height marked onto old doorframes.
My hair dances upon my shoulders like
it remembers past lives
lives as the strings of a harp, a lyre–
as the strong-strung strands racing inside a piano,
about to call out summons to an orchestra.
My earlobes curve languidly like lines
penned around graceful women of Art Nouveau,
and my teeth look forward as
proudly erected battlements,
taunting the world to play nice lest
my mouth arch downwards.
My feet kiss the earth and learn its textures
and carry its colors like precious cargo.
And my fingers turn to the world, ask it
questions–what? how?
And my hands show my love.
My heart beats the rhythm I am music to.
And I am light. I am life.
And I am beautiful like an unstoppable force
which leaves no opportunity for numbers to get a word in edgewise.