Prima Donna
She’ll slash a dress for spite
With operatic shears
In fingers free from tears
If she’s not given white
Lamé instead of gold —
No matter that it’s tissue,
Opals in every fold.
Complexion is at issue,
And gold lamé will clash
With braids of Viking ash,
and eyes of arctic brown.
She’ll be no trouser clown
Performing tricks, a mask
With fluff of guinea hen
And rickrack at her chin.
She’ll be sole, lyric bride —
Not prostitute, not whore,
Courtesan, paramour;
Who saw the other side
Of ticket, stage and tomb —
Coiled, red-faced, swollen, nude
Unborn with attitude —
And exited the womb.
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/v7/poetry-translation/jeffrey-einboden_john-slater/hafiz-sultan-crown?s=42da9f11eaf51c8809e8193f8a8d4b19
[2] https://www.ablemuse.com/v7/featured-poetry/jennifer-reeser/murderess?s=42da9f11eaf51c8809e8193f8a8d4b19