Galatea

I.
An empty white infinity,
eternity of chilled
nothing.
And a faint, irregular rhythm.
Tapping, scraping
reverberate in my ivory veins.

II.
One day, unexpectedly,
I can hear. More scratching, then
a man’s voice, low and muttering.
He does not talk to me.
Only to himself, in thoughtful murmurs
and leaves me suffocating in this void.

III.
Light pours into me, shoots through me,
more painful than the familiar pounding
and scraping  of his tireless chisel.
But I see him now,
features grotesque in their closeness
as he scrapes my eyelid smooth.

IV.
He stands back, examining me.
Still not good enough. He deepens
the curve of my back, smoothes my fingertips.
Glassy eyes, exquisitely curled lashes,
and the flawless, lifeless,
screaming mouth that he does not hear.

V.
My hair, in delicate pale waves,
deceptive softness;
a week’s struggle, and the final one.
He stretches a rough, bony arm around my polished waist
and kisses my bloodless neck, fingers hungrily stroking
a cold ivory breast.

VI.
All day spent on his knees in front of a disused
altar. His one-sided conversations
remind me of my suspended life. I am plagued
by the constant indignity of the eyes that, once merely
appraising, are now feverish with lust.
I reply in silent curses.

VII.
I destroyed him today, just as he created me.
He crouches on the dusty studio floor, cursing
Aphrodite. Wasn’t this his wish? My stone
pedestal beside him, abandoned.
I shed one perfect icy tear. Not for him, but
because now I can.