god considers the first human heart
god considers the first human heart
and wonders if he should start over,
with symmetry this time.
palm-sized and grippable,
pliable but sharp, good for /molding/,
which is my favorite word in any mouth.
/grabbing/ also has a ring to it,
think me and god. later, when there are hands
to do the grabbing, this might be important.
the first prototype is a soft thing,
sopping like mud into rib into–
well, she doesn’t have a name yet.
she is the first thing up for grabs
before there are any takers.
of course, i don’t play a big role in this.
i build what i can out of primordial sounds
like sandcastles, quickly and quicker.
that first named thing is already
on her way to stomp it back smooth.
venus victrix
Beneath my name you will find: White marble, Antonio Canova, 1808. Of course, I’m still waiting for him to come back with the chisel. You learn to love those little bites. It’s the thrill of knowing that the next chip might be the one to make you hollow as those oil lamps he left burning for me on nights after our work, I being the type to get cold easily. For a moment, towards the end, I worried that I might shatter at the dip of my waist, right where he pressed the finishing touches into my navel and called me his victory. No, the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen was not the man who birthed me as the shavings of my flesh crunched beneath his shoes—what I wouldn’t give for another minute under those eyes—and no, the most terrifying thing was not the brittle reach of that taciturn namesake who wanted her fucking apple back. Really it’s those limber little things (with voices hushed softer than my own stale skin) pointing their fingers as they pass, making the tile rattle in my stomach, studying me as if I were born dead as stone. No, worse: less than a woman, little more than an effigy, a naive monument to the only hands that ever touched me and meant it.
