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.