Do you suppose she’s a wildflower,
a cacophony of colours dispersing like seeds?
She could be a moonflower, pale and spiralling,
blanched as a death-wish.
Does she talk in riddles, tie her tongue
with stems, choose her words with precision?
Is she curious, cat-like in her prowl, or meek,
boneless as a doll and flimsy as new-born paws?
Do you suppose she’s our kind of person,
bull-headed, hooves cleaved to the ground?
Does she know who she is, or is she dazed
as a smokescreen, sideways as a crab,
lungs blazing with those insistent vowels –
____________________________who who who who are you?