Naked As A Sculpture by Len Kuntz

Yesterday you were covered in butterflies
And tonight you are shimmering stardust
I don’t want to miss you but my memory is a pushy beast
Even eating this mushy pile of pasta I see film reels
The way you bit your lower lip and licked the top one
Whenever you were contemplating motives
How wide your eyes went while applying mascara naked as a sculpture
We made things once—soap, candles, oblong clay pots, love—
But there was ruin along the way, dead plants and babies
The hammock we bought in Mexico sways between two shaggy cedars
It’s yarn the color of dirty lemons, smelling like cat urine
When I lie down in it the sides reach around like a clam shell trying to envelope me
It’s the first time in years something held me that tight, not wanting to let go

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at

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