How many times – hands open,
palms upwards – like this?
Frequency shameful, cheeks burn
and tremor passes, detested with self.
A weakness passed down from parent
to child condemned to history parallel.
Blood may be tinged with exotic,
but a foundation non-foreign, societal
weights her here, like this. Might as well
genuflect; no gypsy soul to grow wings with
and fly – escapist spirit unshackled – off
to greater, wilder things. A full breath.
Palms twitch, still empty, still supplicant
to needs, desires of multiple origin:
all are crucial. To have
her coffers and cupboards filled,
her body and heart filled too indeed
(though being knee-bent then always
a bruising resulted in). A sigh.
Dark eyes full and pleading
she raises to him above her; lips
part with joint request
and self-sacrifice; complete