Cathedral by Joshua Garcia Rodin Museum, Philadelphia Two bodies emerge from stone as if from the hand of god, mouths touching, daffodils crowding the cold soil. None of the lovers here look like us. Except, perhaps, Damned Women, their faces buried, one’s ass plastered in the air. Like Rodin’s hands, the drama is the space left between them. I am afraid to ask what you believe. We are not lovers. We talk about cherry blossoms, take turns finding the restroom. We laugh at Balzac, whisper, Say his name again. Our hands do not touch. There are gardens & staircases.
 | A guest post by
|
oh my what a poem