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Leah Rodriguez, Delicate Frame

LEAH RODRIGUEZ

Fingers trace the lines of a shape; Hidden valleys and ocean waves. In depths of coral, there is to be found Heaping bowls of sugary citrus mounds. Mauve puckered beads, Trails of forged roads Never seen or taken before, Bending with a driving force. Not to be unlocked, Never to be unclothed; Dilating eyes roving, Gathering intel as following constellations of sprinkled dots. A map unseen; Buried treasure yet to be discovered, Yet to be told. The gems and jewels of love overflowing between the mountains and hills Planted springs of ivory, Veins of injury, holding into hands of callous spells. Rubbing, pinching the blanket between, Hoping to spread peach pigment of mortification. Planted upright, Limbs disguised as vines. Softly, gently flowing with the slight tremor of wind, However, running down her spine Are words of abstraction, Not from her lips, But from others Telling her how to feel, What to think; That nobody will ever think to see her as a masterpiece, But more as early sheet writing from a drunken composer Never to find fame. Fingers trace the lines of shapes, Hidden valleys and ocean waves. In depths of coral, there’s to be found Heaping bowls of sugary citrus mounds. Her bones made of wax, Spindling yarn made from burlap sap.

Fingers long enough To play Rachmaninoff's heart, Keys breaking under the weight Of hatred and burden that’s been misplaced. Her spine is shedding, Deflating with loose weight. The abstraction of the words Become decorations To her oil paint.

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