She has lines
Like the edges of an Arabian sword—
Sharp, and agonizingly curved:
The smooth junction
Between her stomach and undifferentiated torso.
She’d mercilessly stretch her arms above her like an executioner;
Her shirt hiking up two or three inches.
The skin then revealed with delicate hair,
Upturning, like a spearhead to her navel.
Her face tilted forward knowingly
Looks so threatening I am afraid
She will reach out and bite me, but instead,
She smiles mysteriously.
