A dragonfly collides with the glass door
to the pool, his wings strum the strands
of my hair like a cello. I am lilting
like a coal cooling under breeze, spurting
sparks into the song-strung air like seeds.
When I am this unapologetically beautiful
I sometimes grow sullen, aware
of my awareness of slope and tint and
skin that makes no difference at all
when I only want to be the perfect idea
of myself. Last night I told the man I love
that one day soon I would begin to fly;
with eyes full open like peeled plums,
with arms cavalierly limp from the sockets,
wind would fill my marrow with the truth
that I am perfect and I believe myself
enough to lift into the cistern of the sky.