(Poem by Wendy Howe )
He called her photo, Seventeen
not because of her age
but for the years
she had lived and lain with him
on beds of wild grass, river sand
and velvet sloped smooth
as the back of a Serengeti cat.
His fingers clicked, the camera
caught her beautiful face
pivoting on a long neck
other models and dancers envied.
Often, she looked toward the trees
and her silhouette made
a cameo of the sun.
This was the type of pose
he loved to capture, Andromeda
shining through the daylight hours.
Her haunted glance, her yearning
to be protected
was something men bought
and women could wear
as a starlit wish of their own.
To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe
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