That Kind Of Pose - For ShirRae

She could strike a pose

You know, ~
that one that arcs her spine in harrow’s heave
where sun can dry and wind can blow
bits of her away into ephemeral stew
of dust and particles of who she wished she had been~

That kind of pose.

You know ~
that one that melts her, like last year’s snowman
until all that is left is straw-stuffed scarf and mittens and boots
and such lonely cross and two hands left reaching up over the hat~

That kind of pose!

Or, she could position herself on a high beam,
slumped shouldered and crown-criss-cross,
sad faced and wetted cheek, so all the world could see
such martyrdom can come in mediocre gods ~

That kind of pose!

She could put on her shortest skirt and barest top,
kohl her eyes, red her nails, crimson her lips
and bleed words of wrath from dusk to dawn ~

That kind of pose!

But, no, she gathers her baby into her arms,
teaches her E, I, E, I O and I, Yi, Yi Yi
and holds her so fiercely that heaven couldn’t take her,
to make up for the way she is not held herself ~

That kind of pose!

She is a flower ruined by remnants of winter,
ragtag and rattled, she is working a miracle
under the frozen ground ~

That kind of pose!