Today’s poem brought to you by: a free postcard I picked up in an echo-y art museum forever ago.
The Guardian
She might be proud,
or just a little sad,
standing there on profile, eyes always focused
on something behind the frame of her
orange-flecked world.
Proud because
it’s hers, this bright, burnt world,
this sun that’s almost too much
that spits out flecks of its golden self
just because it can,
this crown, composed of something not quite mineral
growing up and outward to counter the weight
under her cloak
and the slant of her eyes and mouth that seem
a little sad
because this world is her pride
and she might never leave it.
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