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./
Synnika