Swans reflecting elephants
Her voice is a child scratching
at a locked door with the strange

kind of naiveté that makes men fall
madly in love with the star shine

woven into her unbrushed hair.
She cannot count past ten,

or look you in the eye despite herself.
She believes in religious relics

and the inflamed spirit when in deep contemplation.
She renders her elders speechless, and paints her toenail purple.

She does not mean to be poetic at all,
though she does appreciate irony in the men she sleeps with.

She only wears gold colored clothing,
and you can spot her by her oversized sunglasses and antique fedora.

She doesn't remember a time when she didn't hate her father,
or a time when she didn't regret that she hadn't become someone else.

She is unfazed by autumn,
but most often broke in the hot summer months.

She's nothing if not something someone dreams about,
her own sleep black and dull from so much nothingness.