Mona Lisa
Making love to her would be like
lighting leather moccasins on fire.
You would have to break her in and burn her.
Mid-foreplay she would get
the urge for a smoky Shiraz
and lose all lust for your baby.
The vacancy in her face
winks like cheap motel neon;
her eyes are two empty
iron buckets, her smile
as flat as fingernails.
She’s a pot-bellied beauty.
If liberated, she would lick her palms,
slick back her hair,
and bite through belts.
Her small grin still cuts the glass
as she catches dust
in her sparse moustache.
Beneath the frame she displays yellow,
lacy legs for sweaty tourists
and I flock, a moth seducing a chandelier/
Quinn Rennerfeldt is currently working on degrees in Creative Writing and Psychology at the University of Colorado at Boulder.