Someone hung her, years ago,
on a wall –
stole her,
ripped her right out of a book.
Isn’t she magnificent?
Take a closer look.
You could almost touch her hair –
very fine and
so red,
releasing a perfume into the sky.
Is she looking at you?
Try not to catch her eye.
You could almost feel her skin –
pastel and damp
with cold;
her neck is bruised and plum.
I wonder, does she care?
Perhaps she’s numb.
You might fall in love with her
all at once
like this;
you may think you hear her cry
but she will not answer –
so don’t ask her why.
ataraxicat 