Stonemaiden
Today I’m carving a stone
out of sculpture.
I wield chisel in one hand, brush
in the other.
Planting bare feet on gravel
I touch the face of the woman
I’m about to unmake.
She is fair, but still.
She is smooth, but inert.
She is—when all is said and done—
terribly boring.
I chip off her nose, trim her hair.
I uncarve her breasts and amputate
her hands.
Where her legs stood, I brush lichen
back in place.
Over the holes of her listenless ears
I pockmark minerals and dust.
We all know an artist—
squirreled away, focused,
unique.
I am not she.
I prowl through estate gardens
picking concrete apart.
In the shadow of architectural follies
I pluck fate’s string into dissonance.
In late afternoon, I’ve broken
and folded
and weathered
and rolled a false maiden into
a rock.
Mottled with life, yellow and gray
and green moss coats her once-skin.
No longer tall, she squats,
inelegant as a clod.
But look at her.
Touch her imperfections,
admire her hulking shadow,
run your fingers
through the wildflowers
already colonizing her base.
Step back, admire my unwork,
and tell me now
is she not beautiful?
—Marisca Pichette