Her hair is French braids, not Cinnamon Buns
wrapped warmly around her small elfish ears,
and her snow white skin glistens, a new kind
of hope, exposed to the heat of two suns.
But soon I see beyond her bright breast,
whose curves are lined with serif’d gold,
and the flow of maroon, like a cape from
her waist, and I can’t help but notice the rest:
a belly with rolled yellow flesh that would seem
to be more at home on a Hutt, with bulges that
spill out from the top of her way too small boots.
You’re not the Slave Leia I saw in my dreams!