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