she’s painfully skinny but has ropes in her veins that saddle horses.
a nose like a hawk with two green eyes bathing in gold flecks and ambergris.
she has two hands like most people, but they have grace -
decanted from a snifter of opposable thumbs made of glass
and spun sugar.
steeped in the warbling of her Angelfire, all reckoning with her genius
is an exercise in futility. she is none of the above.
and it’s the very best strange.