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After Developing At first, simple— me next to the Venus with no arms, you twisting my torso for the photo so I’m an imitation, a crooked goddess. Arms pinned behind me like gnarled vines grown thick by the side of a country road, my hands a clasp of tangled root. We wandered the city, impersonating: at the Rodin, your chin heavy upon fisted hand, skin the bronze before patina. Strange comfort— • • •  • • • this reproduction, driving us into the rain-slick streets at dusk. We had the possibility of becoming timeless— but bones don’t collapse so easily. After developing, what’s left but a replica, imperfect, beautiful: the finite dimensions of film and body— an artifact, an ache knotting my back. • • •  • • • ...

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