Hortensia Anderson

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Remains of Myself

The slab of Botticino Classico has a pale blush.
It is almost golden, glowing in the early sun...

He lifts the sheet, revealing a reclining woman.
I stroke the stone folds of my nude self.

Later, in the studio, I find a dark burlap sack.
Leftover marble chips have been swept into it.

It is as if I have come upon lost remains of myself –
how I yearn to keep them.

rose moon –
light caresses
the curved darkness