The Sculptor

thirty seven.

Marble saint skin of mine

Stretched over child bones,

Flesh wrapped

Stretched, wrapped

Until my edges are worn 

Until I'm worn soft.

Beheld in my infancy,

Untouched slab of stone

Carved clean

By calloused hands

That's what they told me as a child.

(In so many words)

Am I so dull?

Am I not in my head?

I don't exist in my hollow statue walls
Only behind them

I am not so pale or manufactured.

I am red inside my veins,

Am a

Tainted, accidental disaster

Breathed and discarded

By so many fathers

Breathed by cold wet ground aren't we?

Breathed by green water?

I am no mother

Am no child

Am no his and his

And his --