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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Christmas in July
For almost two years,
my company’s been a heavy bathrobe
four sizes too big,
a heating pad, a blanket
to smother my useless leg.
My home was my hole.
In my mind, I straddled
the crater the best I could.
It was never enough
and teardrops washed the sun
until its fireball was cold.
All it took was artificial parts that fit.
Depression lifted like smoke
that meets a racing wind.
Finally, I’m back ag...
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