sometimes she refuses to mince her words
she spews rapid vowel and consonant combinations
with contemporary edifice
and superlatives with medicinal value
she says what she means, sure as shit.
she’s been firmly advised
to choose her language more carefully
and composition is part of her well oiled machinery
reciting strings of internal poetry
the constant vigilant commentary
that is her mechanical (or maniacal) mind
this somehow tender oblique equilibrium
with her tongue inside of her cheek
(oh, the softness of her pale skin
carefully fostering beauty while
dishing up balanced nourishment)
but, the brashness of her sharpened dialect
there is no power in poise in who she is not
and she cannot dig up a proper explanation
to apologize for being
constructed of nature and modern human artifacts
© may 2011 heather brager
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