Please love me even though i can’t:
Dear grandad, i barely knew you - except
that you smoked Belomor and were clever and thought
i was too - though my mom
said you were a loser.
the sting from the rib,
how its tubular structure gives in
to marble -
and if I were to turn to stone - what would I look like?
How would my left hand - is my right - be,
forever airbrushed, pitiless and free?
the nuances fade -
my own Canovo curve: three veins
in perfect parallel.