My Persians’ eyes are nothing like a doe;
Bitter like coffee they stain my face, glare;
The center of her face: a beak, not nose;
Brushing high cheeks and black hairs speak. Compare?
Pale like milk her body sticks to my life,
Her voice twirls like burlap and smoke, it crests
To place that promise, be the end, my wife.
Carrying her ego so weighted, bereft,
So, what is this moon of power? Her feet,
My dreams of chards do shatter as I plank
Her jealousy ill and her fires are sweet;
Tannins swirl and tones are dry with notes drank.
She is the love of my zany puddle, my potion,
My cure to sickness, witch to water, my ocean.
Candice Rankin is a weird, witty wanderer still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up. She is a lover of anything with a heartbeat. She is currently double majoring with a BFA in Creative Writing and a BA in Vedic Science at Maharishi University in Fairfield, Iowa. Candice loves nature, people, her soulmate- Leila, and language. She also enjoys the silence between the words and connecting with the world at the stillness level.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”-Anais Nin