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.

That She Is

He carries his Sylph
one flight up, further
than his dream had
landscaped, by
seams and stitches,

a creation grows.
Creator, with his silver air
occupant, of matter, of time.

The Sylph snags
arid scaffolding on the way; scolding
brazen bricks, wrapping
sick elapsed silk strands
lifeless tower necks.

Her languid limbs stretch,
every catch ripping her
silver lures, bragging
that she is,
that she is!

And he climbs above
architecture; speaks
of the slight
that she is,
that she is!

And he climbs above weight,
above birth,
above death….

silk strands unravel
as he speaks,
of love,
of life,
of broken roads ago

as silk strands go
so do apologies,
and he speaks of milk and water,
white rice,

that she is,
that she is!