prostitute, and decades later a woman
married the Berlin Wall because she
got too tired of leaving men. A couple
somewhere got surgery to look identical,
and in Florida, a man dug out his dead lover’s
body from the grave. But the prostitute flung
the ear in disgust, and the wall crumbled.
The surgery reminded her too much of his flaws,
and the corpse stank while it lay on the bed.
When I first met you, we talked about
how Sylvia Plath placed her head in the oven.
You laughed and said people do terrible
things when they think it’s for love.
And it reminds me of every time
I scraped wounds because it felt like intimacy.
How I squeezed tears out of those big, pale
eyes and called it vulnerability. When Antony died,
Cleopatra kept a snake on her chest and waited
for its bite. Maybe that’s how it ends: the venom
passing through the veins with slow movements,
dissolving everything with pleasure. Maybe that’s
how it should be: I wonder if the prostitute ever
realized that Van Gogh loved her.
~honest musing via Facebook