Sophia

Sophia is hard. 

A naked body at candlelight.
Dust under rain. 

I examine her breasts in the mirror. 
They are round and whole, 
but not soft. 

In the deep places
of my belly 

I feel her dancing.
She spins. 

And we shake 
with the weight of it. 

Sophia is beautiful.  

A beautiful Girl, 
with hard eyes,
wrapped in pink silk, 
and dancing. 

She holds the hearth. 
It is always warm, 
as streched, 
as solid, 
as sinew. 

Warmth always burns, 
except when our will surrenders. 

When life is crushed under mud
and feudal law 
and empty Latin promises.  

Sophia doesn’t surrender.

Sophia speaks the vernacular, 
the poetry of seasons and desire. 

Sophia laughs. 
Sophia smirks. 
Sophia screams.