Why not ask
if her quizzical smile,
aloof plain timeless,
is not a blade, pointed
at the one who dares attempt to capture her?
The so-called “master” who speaks
to the canvas as if she were not in the room. Perhaps,
she has never had much of a poker face. She sits,
sucks on disdain like a cough drop, wishes
for a veil. One so modern it’s invisible. Geometric embroidery
a quantum portal spun, whispered into lace.