All he did was dream: sometimes
that's what it takes to teach us
how lonely we are. Awakened, driven
by the sound of voices,
he carved to an unknown order,
the ultimate self-assignment.
They don't teach nipple-sculpting
at the SVA but he'd copped enough feels
to do a good job.
Everything where it belonged:
and (of course) he fell in love
with the thing because it was
His Creation, and he saw
that it was good.
You know the story: she would not go along,
would not stay moored or even put.
At one AM she'd raid the fridge,
clay feet splatting on the kitchen floor.
And there he'd find her,
perched on the counter
like the White Rock girl,
gnawing a drumstick,
drinking his wine,
smoking an unfiltered Camel,
and showing miles of thigh.
And O, those thighs, his artistry!
between them, he could almost
forget that he was now
the Other, that there were Others,
Golems she'd bring upstairs at night,
rattling the house and leaving
a film of marble chips and dried claydust
over the downstairs rooms. And
the Golem's name--Emet, Truth --
like a frat pin, carved into her hand
she'd hold against the maker's eyes
in their still-shared passion.
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