opalborn

a collage of reds—
the half-full wineglass gleams
sultry burgundy and ruby rich,
her hair the colors of every precious metal
brass and bronze and gold,
none so precious as she,
cords braided through her curls,
sunset and campfire and ruddy coals—

and greens all through her veins,
vine whip and moss plush
and sprawling summer leaves sunlit
into a web of capillaries and shadows,
flecked bloodstone and striped malachite,
cool polish, cat’s eye calm, and forest pulse;

her wings are flame and her voice is aloe,
and seeing someone’s heart can make you a healer
or a very accurate assassin