The Girl Made of Halos (a poem)

Rings started at her feet, on her toes, squeezing her ankles, piercing her naval and lips and nose.

She wore bare fingers.

Golden curls crowned her skull, on her scalp, surrounding her eyes, radiating her disposition and genes and pose.

They were some singers.

Hula hoops swayed on her body, on her waist, swirling her arms, curling her neck and legs and elbows.

She was a girl of swingers.

Sharing halos, halos, halos.

She floated many over her head then.

Rings ripped at her skin, on the run, shredding her cartilage, disfiguring her above and below her naval and lips and nose.

Where were her fingers?

Golden curls circled her cranium, on the ground, splotching her purple and without her smile and eyes and clothes.

Where were the singers?

Hula hoops consumed her thoughts, on her mind, altering her day and ruining her youth and body and blows.

Was she of the swingers?

Chaining halos, halos, halos.

She wears one on her finger now.

Image Citation:

• "Sad Flower Angel." Static Flickr. N.p., n.d. Web. <http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2570/4039454813_2385a3ebe3_z.jpg>.