The Jewel Thief

Hey, y'all prepare yourself or the rubberband man,

because I’m bound to lose a little control in envisaging a woman

who, like a pomegranate, has tough skin and juicy seeds.

We have not long ago intwined in the yarn of waltz,

and I don’t want my felonious steps to miscarry her.

For she is not that girl who milks in lies-ends

or when chicanery raves the raven.

She is the nameless and the many-named.

With her pithy pawns in place, she will eviscerate you,

but only for the sake of the game.

I couldn’t see, at first, that she rises in the far North,

where gold and incense orbs the cost of the soul.

Just ask Persephone if being queen of the underworld

aggregates the carpels belonging to the same flower,

and she will find a jewel thief, so deft within the canon,

like Emily Dickenson, whose hope is a feather she

gently nudges you with in the classroom, like any kind

mockingbird singing songs for you when your nascent

rise is on the cusp of madness and deliverance undone.

And unafraid to be off target, she revels in the messy erotica

of the hearts, lungs, and swarthy mouths that make us

the sentient bearers of a herstory we live.

So, listen some time to this woman in an ivory dress

who will never masticate your attempts at shame.

And so never will I.

Happy Birthday, and thank you for welcoming me into the

Temple of the Profane.