She could storm heaven peacefully,
talk the fishes into walking to Gibraltar,
run her flag up the pole before the Vatican
and teach the Pope to belly-dance.
Her laugh suggests it requires roses,
and her smile is like a piper’s call
drawing me and mine after her
in an endless train, mindlessly enthralled.
Our love she spins between her fingers into silk,
the threads she whisks around our wrists
fashioning us into hordes of jerky marionettes
to dance and bow and scrape and adore.
Ten times I day I wish I could grow a spine,
vaccinate myself against her music and guile,
and I know I could free myself in a heartbeat
if the affection in her eyes weren’t real.