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by Lorna Bracewell

Summer spread across her skin,
turned her sweat to shine
like neon on the wet night pavement,
and I was five again,
frozen in front of Dali's Venus
Light dripping down her canvass
like windshield rain
My mother, museum silent,
turning satin ropes to steel
with her statue stare,
but how my fingers itched to press against that paint,
into that Goddess, warm and wet.