PYGMALION & GALATEA for Joanna P. His beard brushes below & right her belly’s tease of pubic shadowing protrusion, magnetically; stone lips tickle at height of thigh, near by the soft slip inside (had his own fingers formed this soon to be lubricious cavity, or was that the work of some God -ess, or…?) her head turned away, indicates a tender distance. She, of course, has yet to come: close. His huge hands & heavy brow mount -ain stiff w/ love of cold marble. His back muscles, tension of rock knots in a taut bulge, each trained on, straining for, that bare brush of suggested breath against her hard-soft, cold-hot stone, hurtfully close. Glisten of high gallery light on the long luxuriant plane of her shoulder sweeps to neck & careful features, coy gaze cast away from her creator, the unseen Venus or dead Rodin’s fascinated hands & passing eyes wince at the feel of her need to breathe & his to kiss her finally; her miracle birth abortive, her body ever on the verge of yes, tender flesh… and yet as his left hand endlessly lifts to clutch her buttock, thick hawk a-wing by fingers five, frozen in mid-flight seizure, look: marble, unmoving, is somehow made to tremble & ache. A still surface is somehow made to flow in need. Cool is somehow made to burn. I turn away, aware of inter- rupting something. I think I should leave. She looks about to blush & breathe & they may need some privacy.
© Sean Moreland