She says, "Oh, sweet baby soul sibling—
you know I am."
She is a Being In Total Control of Herself.
She is at that plush-flush
flashy-trashy
swishy-itchy-dishy
mystifying, mesmerizing, mortifying
perfectly plum perfect age of woman
when dropping eggs is no longer a certainty and
smiles promise silver slippered secrets
echoed in a kinky coiled coif.
She says whatever, whenever to whoever.
She forgot how to edit her oratorio and
nobody expects her to be
silent and beautiful.
She is and does, without worrying about
the better or best and
she is
she does.
She grabs gazes with her inside teenage eyes and
forgets how to recognize where he stands
between twenty-two and sixty-six.
If he is a lucky live one, her attention flatters, and
he speak-sputters his year olds.
Her tasty buds reply, "Twenty-five?—
Honey,
I have regrets older than that."