Her ivory skin I ne’er saw nor touched

She being very real appeared to me

On a screen of black and white sound;

A mere photograph moving

Coerced by the lightest of dark magic

 

I have seen her as many characters

I have seen her and grown old

When I was a child her thin limbs and black hair

Attracted me in each role

 

Against her I am but a disgrace to my gender

A gender portrayed as angelic and bold

Bold, perhaps

 

If I could but cut my spirit from my soul

By hard and hankered knife

Release a blood that in her would be the same

In her ivory skin I could remain

 

Of all the people her skin hath folded over

The writer- passionate and rare

A scene of books old and attics strewn

With paper thoughts and fancies-

Would undoubtedly set me afire

 

But to walk as her;

In her;

Not about her or below her

Not beneath the floorboards

Stretching fingers to her toes

 

Even as the voice interpreting these thoughts speaks

Her voice is the ink and ebony of this paper

And I am the puppet attached to the strings

That pour from one master who has played as all

 

I could live a lifetime writing solemnly

As the bones entangled and moving

Beneath her ivory soul