Angled taffeta

Cigarettes are made to smoulder.
Eyes aren’t.

A match burns down in the sketchers free hand.
His cigarette trickles ash on the page.
Hers impotent, crying out for
a lick of flame.
A flame promised three sketches ago.

Her eyes the only weapon
against the absurdity of
an adult’s dress and unlit cigarette.

Crossed arms
built to cartwheel between the sheep
and throw cow paddies at fenceposts.
Arms kissed and scrapped by
sun, twigs, and rushing water.

Pencil lines etch rigid defiance into
soft taffeta
too big and fancy for the voyager within.