1/27/04
she lies on her back, sinuous,
insinuating sex with the plump breasts
with a smooth figure,
with a dissolute expression and
modestly crossed legs.
the boys in the class, they
run their hands amorously in their clay,
mold and curve the moist creation before them.
some are acting in lust:
they knead the smoothness before them,
mimic the lines and
sympathetically feel it in their artwork,
letting the itch infest hands
instead of the crotch.
some instead see a perfect form,
and they are the ones whose
created breasts are mounds pressed onto
torso dough, whose faces are sterile
but show her clean lines and are
identically modeled after art.
they are all like men who,
craving a woman, appreciate
either her holistic perfection
letting it teem in their bodies and souls
until it infects them with passion,
or else call her pure and beautiful
and wish her on a pedestal.
the statue, who is rapturous,
is, underneath her expression, hollow stone,
created thus so that she won't be
tainted by their misconception.
if they loved her, they would notice
that her legs do not part in craving
that her arms do not strain to embrace.
they don't notice the lack,
these artist boys, and soon they will be men
who know always they are missing something
but don't realize that the fault is that
as artists, they've created
the cold and fruitless figure of perfection.