Rapunzel would be jealous;

The way the sun hits long waves,

Tresses of brown hair,

Only puppy fur holds that sheen,

Rippling forever,

Her prominent sleek nose,

striking in a way

akin to Samantha Stevens,

sitting with her at the dinner table,

We’d duck when she turned,

Giggling with our cleverness,

In return her smile could catch a butterfly,

Nary a weakness, perhaps mildly gritty; street smarts,

Independence that’d naturally warrant a sky

Filled with flowering explosives,

Only veterans of love or war could compete,

If lucky- you’d catch her attention.

Her power more shapely than her hips,

Leaning towards the oven, wafts of her loyalty filling the air

Like a fresh baked golden loaf,

Birthed and swaddled in a checkered red and white dish towel,

Her complacency lures you,

Classy and old fashioned, like a 60’s flight attendant,

Metal tongs dropping ice into gin, neat

Her voice, an invitation discovered in your mail box,

Spritely, proper, with a regal

Imprint of hot red sealing wax,

As if red lips had just pulled away from envelopes edge,

Secrecy her greatest virtue, tied with her looks;

The beaten, the timid

The dark skinned, the hopeful,

a model to behold,

She was the front of the line;

Mother was anything but nurturing

But she was everything.