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.
