An Ode to Da Vinci’s Lady


The way to appreciate a work of art
is to gawk impolitely, taking in each

and every detail. Streaks of brown chestnut
weaving through the Mona Lisa’s hair, if viewed

at close range at a precise angle of, oh,
forty-five degrees or so, to either side

will move with the wind if you wait a while.
It’s weird the way that works. She smirks at you,

almost as if sharing a joke between friends,
but perhaps there’s really something to it. What

if she’s staring at you when you look away
and thinking, “He likes me and I like him too,”

and the grin on her face barely contains the
joy of being alive and lucky enough

to feel feelings of happiness? Elation.
Her smile is warm; so is her emotion.

Those soft, thin lips surrounded by her dimples…
Those big, brown eyes luring you into their gaze…

I swear to God, a man could look at her for
days and never tire of her elegance.

I wonder if she knows of her precision.
If only she could speak instead of listen.


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