Flying on fueled wings and not a single run in her stockings. This profession is rosary and hail Mary’s, Cartier frames on up-scaled 28’s. She is mother, love; a Goddess scoring. Her runway’s a 6 mile radius of broken glass holding up striding legs, tired legs that bend and fold like origami artwork. Her song begins with a hey, ends with a door shutting and out of all the names she holds this one under s spectrum, everything is yours beneath you. You are of the universe, the Brillo in a glass rose. When you can’t feel the handle to a car door, or walk in your glass slippers without cutting your feet, then its time to rest, sleep. A two day old Newport bent in your purse will give to the torch, stale as fresh water and cranberry juice.
By Demetrius Buckley