She is olive.
A tan-skinned Jasmine.
A rare earth metal;
and jewel-encrusted.

Sepia crescent moons
Dart at me. And then away.
A velvet petal.
My spine crumbles; rusted.

And when she negotiates a lone fold,
it
       babbles
                 down
                        to her shoulders
                        and comes to rest
                    across nape and breast.
                        As if immune;
                 she
       never
resisted.
                        She manipulates this simple tuck,
and every lesson, line, lecture, lash and lambaste in my language or hers is gone and has never existed.


                      This only tuck,
                                     that single fold;
                                     who gives a ****?
                                     Or so I've been sold.

Her hair is coveted;
linens for kings.
It gleams in my den,
near unworthy things.