Surface Tension

Dying –
it’s a little like that back there
“Get a tan, man!” – the beastie boys jeer,
white-raged, she’s facing off fear

Out here, the limits are none
her swirling strands of red-yellow-gold, spun
into halos burning bright as the sun,

jewelled auras for silent incantation,
reposed in peaceful contemplation
of fancies, unbound by vituperation

underwater, she is as fish,
swims human stark antithesis,
becomes her Aphrodite wish


Updated for Sideview’s weekend theme of Beauty