before she had a full formed face
of plans he had for her features,
her round and feminine grace.
He breathed hard upon her
chiseled long into the night
and sleeping, dreamed of glistening wings
replacing shoulder blades, for flight.
He felt her body come alive
one moment while he worked-
instead of cold hard stone
it seemed of warm earth
that she took her form.
And he, in fever, felt a madness come upon him-
fell in love with pure white stone
that yielded to his bleeding fingers,
slowly taking form--
"o elegant beauty conceived by man,
whose labor loved, designed and planned
his perfect mate in statuesque pose-
if you could be brought, right now, to life
my madness might be cured,
that I might lie beside you,
feel your heartbeat…strong and sure."
One moonless humid summer night
he heard her whisper back…
"Dear, proud Raphael, there is one thing that I lack.
The great creator, God on high
is just a little angry
with your vain impassioned sighs.
You work so hard and long to bring
this shapeless slab to life,
to force your image of beauty
to come alive…
to be your wife.
Please let some stroke mar your perfect ideal form.
See that imperfection turn
your hardened heart to warm compassion.
Love God's creations as your own.
See that perfect beauty as an image cast in stone
is no replacement for a human being."
In the morning
Raphael took a chisel to her face.
He made her nose too big, her eyes too wide,
her full lips to taste, no sin denied,
her features slightly wild.
Forsaken pride and prudish stance
gave way to imperfection
and behold…she came to dance.
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