Galatea as Sixteen Lines
after “Avail” by Julie Marie Wade
I watch the poem choose its pose for
the statue, selects the metals from
the sculptor by how the weight
felt in its hands.
My eyes glaze over as I
watch the process, spending hours
trying to see how many times I
can twist my ring before it finishes.
The poem decides it’s done when
it sees the first shake in the
sculptor’s hands, the first trickle
of blood forming under
my brass ring.
It chooses this moment to stop,
content to let admirers guess
why it has no face.
***
The Olive Grove
after “Myth” by Joseph J. Capista
The olive grove reminds her of the shroud she wore the last time she left her home. How the bushes formed perfect patchwork squares, dirtied by the scrap bin her mother pulled them out of. She walks through the grove, trying to count the number of olives that have fallen to the ground before birds come to pick them up. She’s too slow to pick them up before a beak crushes the pits, leaving splinters on the soil. She’ll pick one splinter up, plant it upright in the one open patch of the grove, and wait for it to sprout olives. In the time it takes for the first olive to appear, her mother will set her sewing needle down for the last time, then toss the remaining fabric scraps into the fire for a little bit of warmth on a winter’s evening. She’ll look out the window, think of the daughter she hasn’t seen in years, and hope she’s full and warm tonight. But her child won’t be; she’s too busy watching the earth.
