Artifact of Provocation, Mischief

Flowing at absurd angles

beyond henna and hurry,

luminous hair

with hues surpassing

typical sartorial idiom.

She is twirl, shift, shadow

in the lineage of Saraswati:

destructive, creative

on scale according to breath.

And pulse:

momentary diastole,

actual systole.

Incendiary release

on streets made wicked

by grown children

lacking her laugh.

For every purple,

she seeks the density of clay.

For every green,

she approaches journeywork of the stars.

For every illuminated tangerine

that teases the tongue,

she scatters upward confetti

that trace city air:

A glorious night

of paper fireworks

igniting to wreak havoc

on the backsides of her knees

damp with lurid panting, pulling play.

No slow show greets her

near the edge of all abandon.

It is rush and random.

Opalescence cascading,

coalescing, acquiescing.

The dew, the dawn,

the smoke, the desert

all meet at her heat:

Opportunity to push,

to feel the edge

of her farcical, fanciful friction.

Uneasy balance of emerge,

a teasing moment of take

that glides into give.

She does not diminish,

does not turn to husk

or withered wisp.

Her life is a living artifact

of provocation, mischief.

She becomes

solid

fluid

vapor.

Eminent reminder

of her place

on and in and of.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston