João Tomaz Parreira

Whore

First, the depths of her eyes
let the night in. Then the body
turns the corners as if passing through walls
of crystal, the hair trembles
on the shoulders, the lips
smile behind a crimson
flower, the legs climb steeply
from the high heels;
finally, the breasts that shield
the cold against itself
let go of the world that always falls to her feet:
the stockings, the intimate
rose,
the dress.

Poem Submitted: Friday, December 1, 2006
Poem Edited: Wednesday, December 1, 2010

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