A wild henna mass of tangled hair,
glowing, sweat-drenched moonround face,
honey thick and dripping down a waxy comb.
She had her goddess moments,
eating microphones and wailing,
layering boas, bracelets and tattoos
to adorn her lush and glorious form.
No smile ever brighter, more alive
or more compelling.
Her voice, an instrument of god,
wide open feeling essence,
a grainy, gutteral lulluby.
No man would ever know
the fragile, tender heart that moved it
to its edge of madness and beyond
or how the fifth of Southern Comfort
seeped into the cracked open places
in her soul and filled the holes
where that radiant light moved
through her being
only wanting to be seen.