Behind a Surface
Black oil spills down her ears
it parts evenly, the symmetry of her life
she is the people,
the people on the other side—
their breaths of awe so sudden
they tilt the gentle bud on its stem
covered with embroidered snow
frosting her skin – pinching her cheeks.
She wears brown gloves
like dirt that blurs it all:
her cursed human roots, abysmal stare,
curtained by that pure, heavenly shawl
made of fur that collects from the white
hairs of her aging audience’s lashes
as they infatuate with her beauty,
admire her lasting youth.
Yet the flowers round her have never bloomed
and she has never breathed.