She reclines into the shimmer
of the magazine,
lids half-closed,
lips slackened to a bow.

Across the months
she is a butterfly
winged with chiffon.
A page prowling leopard
with fiercely kohl-striped eyes.
A Londoner, arm raised past
spider-legged lashes
in a black cab salute.

But though parties blur
at the edges of her hips,
and landscapes fall
at the sweep of her hair,

she cannot be grasped.
Her fingers slip
from the corners of the page.
She can’t climb out;
a chameleon trapped by glass.

Her silhouette fades
into February’s issue,
eyes glide past her reaching hand.
A licked finger won’t hesitate
to watermark her cheek,
and fold her into forgotten.