She is not a fish,
she is not a chicken,
but a woman.
Fearless front, unflinching,
a huntress in the Savannah,
proud…and subdued.
The golden lady is denied eyes,
but allowed a mouth
—yet—
does one who has seen nothing have anything to say?
Yes.
Yes, she has things to say.
And though her mouth is closed,
her lips are loose…
She is silent,
but tells what she wants to tell,
if you just look deep enough,
into the way she grasps herself,
hair in a tight bread roll,
her head is directed
not up
not down
but forward.
She glows yellow,
like a middle-aged star,
or our habitual sun.
She does not mind her scars:
they are but tracks left by ice skates,
shallow yet timeless,
she does not mind them,
—or is it only that she cannot see that they are there?
Her metal face reflects my own.
Noses nearly touching,
I can see myself,
swimming in her own gold universe.

And she tells me what she thinks of it.