Venus Looks Coldly Over Her Shoulder
I dread morning, wanting only to lie back in the wire-cold night with the boy who lives in the house beyond. But my feet wear sandals made of cement, and my eyes, faded of paint, gaze over my shoulder and past my love as though I cannot see him. Each night he comes to my garden, lifts the heavy heads of roses, oblivious as I twitch my heavy robes aside, exposing a breast by uncertain magic. But what would he want of such a breast, chill as a store-bought egg, skin austere as a grave marker worn smooth by rain and years? And then as dawn intrudes, her sticky fingers pulling him out of the rosebeds and onto the path, I have no arms to console myself with nor can I turn my head past the rise of my own shoulder to watch him go.
Jenniffer L. Lesh- August 25, 1995
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