A superstar is
not
supposed to reflect
the sun, but you mimic
its expansive brilliance,
its heavy weightlessness;
your perfume is its first
born with long braids
stemming down and
through the sky,
imprinting a new peace
on the land. You’re
the central figure of
femininity’s movement,
and when I touch your
face, I hear God’s
lullaby, which is symbolic
of your contribution to
womanhood’s sensual
culture. Lady, you’re
the jazz playing in my
chest, the wind walking
on my lips, and if I could
rename you, I would
simply call you Woman
because any other title
would lessen your
meaning. Your mouth
houses love’s balmy
environment and comforts
seduction’s sexy language.
A superstar is not
supposed to reflect
the sun, but your origins
liberate me from my
volatile ego. Please say
you’ll catch me, after
I tilt back my head and
tire from spinning in place.