It is a picturesque scene
Ankles crossed, eyes down, hair whipped
she waits, sits, silent.
The ocean caresses her; she is wrapped up
completely in its blanket

Sun-kissed prisoner

She appears in equal beauty on a page
one brush stroke at a time, as
her god dips the brush in paint
She licks her lips; sand coats her tongue
and yet she forces stillness.

Goddess, she reminds herself:
I am a goddess, and this is my land. You see,
I stun all but this man before me.
He’s got magic, and yet I captivate him;
he creates my image, completes my soul.
And so she waits.

Her hair is fire beside the sea.
Her dress is blue, the color of justice,
and her skin pale as the sand.
Arhen, she says, not knowing
if she speaks aloud or imagined,
Arhen, keep going, finish
before I melt. I like this,
beside the sea.
I don’t want an anchor, I don’t want a fireside waiting;
I want the sky, and the sea, and the breeze.
I want wings, dammit, and she knows she’s speaking for real.

Give me wings.

Her god gives her wings like angels’,
soft and white as babies’ flesh;
folded. She smiles a little
and knows that they’re potent, beautiful,
waiting, waiting to be spread
so she can

fly