she spoke to him in Kikuyu
(and breathed to him in numerical data.)
she thinks about beauty standards a lot-
-elevation and forms on their faces
earth’s most expressive cinema
42 (!) braids sigh down the slender back
the fire white locks opposite the ebony of her espresso
the night motif of that skin and that shirt
erases itself against cast iron and
here they are
-broom and mop.
the infirmary of her air causes them to buckle
of course there have been others who came before
and others who have suffered.
those instances now acrylic textiles and lion hair.
(because none of them smoke cigarettes quite like she does)