Floating Ladders2
By Denise R. Weuve

Your mother still remembers
molding you in her womb
giving you the thick devil brows,
putting you together, a mosaic
of past lovers’ limbs

The hands of a man
who stroked her hair
as if he were raking a garden
trying to find treasures
beneath every root.

Full lips and childish smirk
of the lover who dragged her through
decrepit stages of life
by the throat, and burned her elbows
with hand rolled cigars.

She gave you the heart of the one
who kissed–wet and sloppy–
her suicide scar, then blew on her skin
as if he were Zephyrus
sweeping the pain away.

I could not have sculpted such a David
no more than I can give tell you
to chalk color your dreams on sidewalks
or love with the abandonment
of Van Gogh’s flame strokes.

I simply let you in
to let you leave.

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