I am laying in wet cement, gray
blanket gobbling up my plague.
It is thick like me,
like the twenty years of
plaster inside.

Everything is hardening.
Fallopian Tubes.

I have been treated like a statue.
It isn’t hard to
be still,
motionless. Erect.
Allowing curious wanderers to
make up my background,
my story.

A man brought oranges
to paint
me with. He was a soft liquid.
I was set to stone.
He sliced his moist fruit,
sweet citrus over my rough skin, melting
my rind.

Away, away I went with delicate fruit.
A new sculpture.
A beautiful, fluid seed.

14 thoughts on “Statue

  1. yes another fabulous poem , I know what I make of it … being a statue hardening up inside and in the mind thinking that is that is that . There is no more to life than being hard cold friendless and loveless. Just a woman telling no one about your past present or future. Leaving them to invent you for themselves. Then along he comes with a fresh attitude and approach. He melts you shows you what you can be , he changes your heart, soul and mind shows you that you and he together can live…and bear fruit.
    Probably wrong!! I love your poetry but I do not always understand it!! I have to be honest that is my way. So there you have it this soul loves your poetry even if she is not clever enough to understand YOUR meaning! Be well and happy and keep writing XXXXX 🙂

  2. I particularly like this one. The image of a person turned into a stautue is a powerful one, but outside myth and science fiction (OK, and Pompeii) the apparent statue is still human flesh and spirit.

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