The classic curves, the map
Lent from God carried on
the mitochondria, the map

lives on brushes of sable
(If you are lucky) Or even
straw. The curves which,

denied to me,

send the lumps of my

age

over to you with

fear.

of love again under

covers.

The last supper of my

dying.

The caves of mirrors

are your eyes

And the locks on my joy.


Carolina Shank
9.8.2024