Richard Marx Weinraub


Imagine your love is Venus de Milo—

but whole—come to life in your living room.

Her alabaster cast has turned back to olive;

she is eighteen—younger than Empire—

and pure—for she came before Christ.

Now picture this woman (who’s not quite a woman,

but a child conceived in your fantasy)

just sits there in front of your living room window

turning clouds into nimbus—your tool to a chisel—

as you make her—the image of God.

She’s not God exactly—but the rock of your vision

as it pinches her small milkless breasts—

and parts her—with tresses of marble—and lashes

her buttocks so hard that you feel like a man

who can forge a new world out of stone.

Her Vulcanized lover—you’re thrown out of heaven

and fall—for her morning and eve.

You’re deformed—while she twists in a natural manner

away from you—hours a pop

coming back to your niche with pricks in her arms.

Imagine you kiss your impassive creation

and bitterness shudders your frame.

The smack that addicted you to her is yours,

so you’re losing your marbles detaching her arms

to be mortar in Love’s subterrane.