Fronds of seaweed on a submerged stone,
her long dark hair rises vertically.
She is horizontal
with one arm and one leg raised
as though exercising on the floor.
her flowered dress billows upwards,
revealing her stocking tops.
One shoe is missing.
Behind her a brownstone hotel
blinds pulled halfway down.
Passing the second floor
all these things seem normal, expected,
except her face.
She is not open mouthed and screaming,
her eyes are not wide or screwed shut:
her lips curl in an almost smile,
like a renaissance painting of the Madonna
or in those seconds after orgasm.