Rose swallowed the globe and paints kitchen walls
with a fingernail polish brush,
arabesques of cherubs every three inches.
Her son chokes from a case of thrush
as she hums a fugue never written.
There is a place,
a tropic bay,
where cherubs
fly away
as, at sixteen,
her boy
opens his veins
and pales
like a pagan martyr.
The day when Rose whispers to a love,
"You're so much like my son"
as cherubs weep
down dirty walls.
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