I am beige
but I would have you paint me colored.
Like the sun, brown my hot skin
mahogany; like the wind, wind red-gold twists
through my hair. My hips shall
flare in your vision, my waist sing
feet crashing on the sand.
Tangled in my kohl-black lashes, mired
in the tar of my gaze
Know my lips too red for fleeting kisses,
Though I am curved
I would that you sketched me angled:
my love a tideless ocean that pushes
ever deeper against its restless floor.
Imagine me not one to
touch but to
hold, not to
caress but to
center and spin
steady in the swirling universe.
I'm but the devotee of a dying ember
the mere shadow of a spark
but stoke me a fire, and
I, the moth
thinking herself a dragon
shall immolate myself in the blaze.