A girl is both tiara and shadow,
a boarded-up window, a wooded ravine.
Neither scar or slit, but a garnet
of grisly, of lovely, of lonely,
plumbed and deeply plumbing shine.
A girl is also substance and pluck,
a crowbar, a prying, and a peering into
the ugly, the empty, silt and stone.
Less paper doll, more shadow shifter, full
of foghorn and ghost glitter. Petal-
precious and profane, a canted frame.
Less pinwheel princess, more moat-leap, mock
curtsy and scissor kick. This girl is lovely door-
down, lonely hill climbed, grizzly untamed.
Jackie K. White is a professor at Lewis University and a faculty advisor for Jet Fuel Review. Recent poems appear in Tupelo Quarterly and Superstition Review along with collaborative poems published or forthcoming in Pleiades, Isthmus, Posit, and Cincinnati Review. She has published three chapbooks and served as an assistant editor for the collaborative anthology, They Said.