Her strength suits her skin in a metallic shine,
A hard glaze like a valiant trophy
But she’s no trophy wife;
Her beauty scarfs itself around her
Like ribbons of ine silk
And she wears it as delicately
As the winds are loud,
Forever rumbling.
She kneads her ingers into the world and molds it
Like it’s cold, damp clay
So that in the canyons of her palms she holds
Her own,
Clasps it tight in rippled hands
That are weathered with years of
Shielding, as though tears from
Eyes that have so profoundly
Lived and longed,
Squinted and seen,
Widened and wandered,
Glared and gleamed,
All solidiied their salty streams into a mass
Of slippery armor like a glove of glistening glass
Unseen to the human eye,
Transparent with a parent’s passionate purpose
To protect, to guard me from the same
Rabid world she has learned to tame,
Like a froth-mouthed dog
To obey,
And through beats of a once-fragmented
Forever-healing heart,
She defects its jagged arrows
With her promising palms,
Her guarded, stonewall skin,
Yet her touch remains smooth
Somehow
Soothing like a whisper,
A faint murmur that tickles the ears
Like simmering tea snaking
Its way down the throat
And cradling the belly.
She is the serum for my sorrows,
The drive for my tomorrows.