The birth canal of her thoughts
ends on her lips when she has a mind,
but for now she lets them ride around
in her head; secret lusts interwoven
with her sense of right and order.

The woman has cherries,
as blood sour as the chiffon
that holds a breast of hair tugged tight
above her scalp, caressing intelligence
gleaned in studious eyes as dark
as the navy colored mug
of chamomile tea beside her,
and the matching printed dress that
half satisfies a desire
to be both beautiful and a thinker.

Volume 1, Issue 2, 2007