Latex Forms, Latex Moments Winding my watch in early dark almost stifles the nausea incited when you dragged me limp and naked to your studio and lathered me in plaster and with this mold made copies more authentic than the source. Hand-painted, dressed in my clothes, these latex simulacra drove my car, stroked my cats, wrote letters to my friends. You  laughed because replacing me with many versions of me felt easy and natural and not at all like revenge. I awoke with my palms tingling and that lump in my stomach and now I’m persuading myself and my antique Hamilton watch that keeping proper time allays the ache of body and spirit longing for separation. Outside, trees and mushrooms, newts and toads, aster and gentian fuss about their daily business, but the dark in which they’re at ease outweighs what little ego I can muster. A hundred miles from here, dozing in your studio, you’re musing on the latex moments we shared, as all adults do, sorry you can’t erase them and dream yourself enraptured by that original virgin mood so ornamental with moon and stars everyone mistakes it for art.