Some Stones Hurt
I was ten years old
when I saw the Venus de Milo
posing on clean gray tile.
Shutter clicks were going off
like car alarms.
And I was ashamed of her stone.
Of the air where her arms
were destined to be.
I wondered why she had no scars.
If she hated the eyes --
their rabid dogs, their
pigeon-dropping cloying orbs.
I wanted to give her my clothes.
Pass her a bottle of glue.
“She’s broken,” I said to my aunt.
...
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Absence & Ache
If this were plain old age --
that ugly, stubborn customer
of all our whittled destinies --
perhaps I could sleep
after watching you struggle to walk.
No hands. No feet.
So cheerful as they bring you
legs of carbon, and plastic and screws. Your elbows swing like hangers without shirts
in a trailer shaken by storm.
The vacant air, your silhouette
of avid sadness lingering
with cobwebs on the graying walls. At twelve, you're far...
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