I see the smooth dip in surface
where pectorals meet a ribcage
and I envision into existence two scars
perhaps still fresh with stitch marks.
his stone sling slung over one shoulder,
a colossal right hand curled around a mystery,
David is the essence of an enviable masculinity:
delicate gesture and curve,
polish and poise in contrapposto.
a sculptor pitched bits of rock
by mallet and chisel
to free a man and myth from marble
so that he might stand self-assured as stone.
there is something queer about this intention—
something intentional about this queer—
and while I have never been to Italy,
in a daydream I break free
from a mob of gawking tourist types,
rush past gallery guards
and duck under velvet ropes
to David’s feet.
armed with a bottle of polish
I paint his toenails.
but he does not glance down at me—
a mere mortal of pinkish flesh,
my own sutures long dissolved—
he stands still and cool,
eyes forever cast
toward Rome.