andy and marilyn were made
for each other:
he dressed her,
bedecked her
in her funeral flowers-
he was a weed,
she was a doll,
in his hands
the imprint
of her smile,
stolen
from the mona lisa-
across her mouth
a smudged, blood-red gash
he loved her,
he wanted her,
so he fed her
into his factory,
and off the reproduction line
she came,
still smiling,
that same fixed transparent smile
that same fixed transparent smile
that same fixed transparent smile…
andy cried
as the images multiplied-
somewhere in the process
his love for her had died.
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