I am laying in wet cement, gray
mud
blanket gobbling up my plague.
It is thick like me,
like the twenty years of
plaster inside.
Everything is hardening.
Kidney.
Liver.
Fallopian Tubes.
Guts.
Heart.
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,
dripping
sweet citrus over my rough skin, melting
my rind.
Away, away I went with delicate fruit.
A new sculpture.
A beautiful, fluid seed.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 