Van Gogh's Ear
She kept his ear,
secretly wrapped it in silk,
stashed it between spiderwebs and headboard dust.
For decades she dreamed of silk.
Silk, alchemy of softness,
pressing life into the sticky folds.
Yes, still sticky
with the grit sweat of her hallow palm
and the apple blossom saliva of her mouth.
Her shrunken lips fixed on necessary midnight swills
from an ear long gone deaf,
removed and taken to the New World
in the gray light schism of dream silk and death.
Had she known the girl
who found the ear on a coarse beach
she would hate the girls black eyes and burned thighs.
She would hate the girl's thumbs,
hate the thumb strokes on the petrified ear
depressed and gray like smooth silk love.
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