At first, simple—
me next to the Venus
with no arms, you
twisting my torso
for the photo so
I’m an imitation,
a crooked goddess.
Arms pinned behind
me like gnarled vines
grown thick by the side
of a country road,
my hands a clasp
of tangled root. We
wandered the city,
impersonating:
at the Rodin,
your chin heavy
upon fisted hand,
skin the bronze
before patina.
Strange comfort—
this reproduction,
driving us into
the rain-slick streets
at dusk. We had
the possibility
of becoming timeless—
but bones don’t
collapse so easily.
After developing,
what’s left but a replica,
imperfect, beautiful:
the finite dimensions
of film and body—
an artifact, an ache
knotting my back.