Pygmalion and Galatea
Back in the day when I would look into your eyes
And see shades of white and light unfurling off of
Apollo’s dewy wings
I fancied you
Pygmalion,
And I
Galatea,
A man of taut flesh, a woman of cold
steel.
Seen, but not heard.
But
Texas ain’t no
Mount Olympus,
My skin is too rosy to be forged by man.
Five years ago you threw down your
chisel and sighed,
A completed work can only fade away to sweet
oblivion.
I hope when they look at me
They will see how your hands slowly traced and redressed the pattern of iron
curves,
Lips smothered hard hips and perky
breasts
Eyes burned into the atoms of my very being.
I hope somehow they will see me nod in patient understanding
When I share with them the lament of
domestication,
Feet that have traced the graceful
calligraphy of one million years and zero smiles.
Oh Pygmalion, will they ever remember me, the
coalescion of
stone and
eroticism?
Can the woman
immortal ever be heard?
This poem is my work.