Di Vinci

Here are your eyebrows, nonexistent,

but lined and contoured with the scorching pain

of one fatal cut.

Here is your tongue,

coated with black polka dotted tears that

your mother claims to be laziness, but you have known

to be the anger of your brother

heated as a freshly unplugged iron.  

Iron.

Here is iron, the sense of smell itself,

the smell that brings your mind both pain and aching satisfaction.

The smell of a sharp jagged knife.

The smell of a freshly scorching iron ready to attack wrinkled clothes.

Here are the wrinkles on your mother's face that seem

so delicately painted on.

Love is not a question?

The Black Mona Lisa