Hall of Mirrors

You are red my love, despite your protests, but not

flaming red

you do not sear the gentleness gathering around your splendid frame and

brain like the warmth in the coiled loops of the electric stove. You

radiate, gyrating your hips to the sounds of music only you can hear

in Swiss fields filled with daisies that do not wilt against your heat but feed

and sheet your world in brilliant whites and brilliant yellows.

You have the face of a star. The mouth of a whale. And the fierce desire

of a bull

and since you are red you charge at yourself preparing to

gouge a hole, large enough to let the love you feel spray and drip like fireworks about you. While you stood

by the oven, two steps away from becoming dinner pressing your

palms

firmly against the heat

I swooned to the sound of the beating heart outside you.

There are over 50 of you in the Hall of Mirrors.

Even this does not come close to capturing your earthly presence

for you exist in every warm moment.

Not against a sheet of cold glass.