she is a mean and unfettered gaze, a snarl and a collapsing lung after a brief fistfight on late night runway in a church basement passing itself off as the holy land. She is the dream my grandmothers had while starching a husbands work shirts. She is dancing backwards. She is deathfall of the empire in blond. She is gay. She is glass beads, crystal quartz cluster, she is crystal points sharp enough to dagger through the dismissal dismal of it all. She is draining the great dismal swamp with her own eye roll. She is railroad nail numbers, she is dainty precious ceramics. She is a fat black woman taking matters into her own hands. She is the hand of fate. She is giving white beads. She is giving wood, plaster, plaster gauze and a heated gaze over the courtroom. She is not a Good Samaritan. She is an escape artist. She is dazzling in polished quartz dragon foot. She is rhinestones and tasseled nipples. She is coming for you. She is mirror, precious baby tea cups, wire, cowrie shells and memory. She is never upset for the reason she thinks. She is enjoying herself.