In the end

She became anemic
Refused to be force-fed his dreams
Heart torn
Watched him thrive (inspired)
His chisel flew
She watched from a corner, Arachne,
Spinning escape
Weaving schemes
That she had grown beyond created
He was not blind
and he fell asleep each night
listening to
the melancholy music
of beauty enchained

His fifth therapist parroted the others
"Let her go"
This alone was driving him mad
Unable to make anyone understand
She was to him like soil
The rich loam of Spring
He could forgive any of her transgressions
Accept anything
Except the truth that
She was bound to leave

No good-byes
She just left
Out-wrestled regrets with selfishness....
Left behind a (half-filled) wine glass
lipstick stained
on a pedestal thick with his
busy chisels' dust
One perfect finger
had traced
(framed by an arrow-pierced heart)
a message
"I have my own depth"
You don't own my soul"

She went first to Paris. Toured Europe.
Places accustomed to beauty
Spent a length of time in Milan
For a while she'd sent him postcards
(He propped them against his chisels)
explaining her need to be alone
But he knew she carried him with her
Bore the weight
of each and every one
of his uncarved lumps of stone

II

So believing her tethered
allowed the slack,
having learned something new
Experienced color....took refuge in paint
(redefined by his brush)
He honed this different stroke &
the critics raved
Struck by the loneliness....
The shear emptiness
his work displayed
By day he would hush his inner voice
Refuse to hear her name
But at night it still called "Galatea"
Oddly enough it was that sound that
kept him sane..

Pygmalion waited
Exorcised the golem Emet
He banished the remnants left
from Truth
Placed Faith in his heart &
Not once
did he entertain the thought
that she would never return
What he did was dream...
Lit candles, watched wax drip
Fill the space (opaque)
Create its own form of sculpture
as it grew and over time encased
her words
He found comfort knowing
They remained
on the pedestal
Entombed

Karen Dugan

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