Brigitte Byrd Pink Helmet Sonnet

If you look at her face, you think you see your child dressed up in a black velvet coat, neck hemmed in starched ruff, a lace detainee, waif extraordinaire inclined to gloat because she knows you understand each part of the picture by itself, but your mind cannot fit them together from the start. Now is not the time to look unrefined. Who strolls along the famous colonnade of the Palais Royal’s gardens in socks as orange as the harvest moon, unswayed by the heat wave, en route for the Seine’s docks? If Buren striped his columns black and white, should a girl in pink helmet look contrite?


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