Couched on the blond porch
she cups her girth in a pool tanned paw
riding the ridge of her wild waste
with understated resolve.
A cowgirl hide is never weathered overnight.
Don’t expect the extra hillocks to sink
between ribbed ravines in a flash of restitution.
So easily this hand that strums and picks,
these lips that formulate the exigencies of sound,
so blandly they clasp some untoward nugget to her breast.
She, the feminine virtue of muscle and bone
born and raised on secrets.
She, denier of consequence,
extrapolator of lies,
daughter of madness.
She cuts her flesh with knives of thoughtless plunder,
undermines the soil of expectation with tip toed plenty.
Her lassitude encumbers the nest.
Enough! Grief and abnegation draw up reigns of noble fury.
Listen. Interesting interstices claim a voice.
Crooked teeth strain at a tethered womb,
people the earth in wee giants, slender musculature, brash commerce.
Doubt her not, muse of woman
galvanizing trust and purpose
for her tired, worn, newly mewing world.
Sink with incorporated brine or stand instead on bars of immaculate perception.
She leaves the world today
to save it and her corporal amusement from the drink.
Nothing on this planet
can escape her silk shaped lust.
Susan Weber
Public Domain painting Claude Monet, Water Lilies
