Velour poem #2 (title creativity quickly dwindling)

Felt crowns and unibrowed

smirks confirm royalty.

A kingdom, a sisterhood,

we lay ourselves at

her feet but she pulls

us up to meet her.

Equals.

I feel nowhere near

but habitually tend to believe

blue-eyed goddesses

with silver tongues.

Fire engine screams

match a t u m b l i n g

of rose petals—

her normal is not normal

and we flock,

thirsty for shadows,

for monsters, for

art without pretention.

She is a Fabergé egg warrior,

a gender slayer

barbed with magic

and crackling with intellect.

If we are black freighters

(the forgotten ones, the

odd ones)

she is a lighthouse

burning

white light

calling us home.