You asked me if I thought
you were pretty.
Pretty is relative only to
everything besides oneself.
When I stare deeply into the mirror
I become confused.
There are two versions,
one always melting into
the other.
The first: a goddess,
black magic turned blue.
A garland of roses
atop my head,
pure and perfumed.
The second: relative.
A wise aunt who shares dark eyes.
A brave father who shares resilient,
smooth skin.
You liked the idea that beauty
is ancestral and proud.
You asked how you could come to wear
a garland made of roses.
Together we looked in the mirror
and I removed my garland,
delicate as a newborn.
I let it settle on your head.
I let it bring you balance.
these words by Ivana Velickovic were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim
wordandcolour 