Page 69 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. III #12

At work in his Paris studio, white light flooding in Brancusi must have been so in love with his muse
he searched, chiseling with fury the rough white stone until finding her, lifted her head
off her body then tilted the smooth stone face
so that slight indentations of eyes, the faintest
crease of mouth, birthed from his own head,
she was released
from time.
When I finally reached you on the beach, we looked together at Brancusi’s head, the perfect irony
of water sculpting stone, our son now a sturdy boy
a golden head, the strong legs bracing
for each shock of wave.
With each rush of water his legs disappeared
and he was pulled almost toppling then struggled up his lean body, a perfect arrow sprung
into the great suck until he balanced
there on the moving stones, upright and shaking shouting, his triumphant fist, loving this contest each salty crash.
I made a wish as if blowing candles
on a cake. As if anything could prepare me for this perfect grief. The day he wakes a young man, each wave taking him farther and farther out
into the beauty of his life.
And was this the final perfection Brancusi had been seeking? Defiant Zeus, Athena wave tossed and silver, Brancusi’s
now forever. Secret muse, teach me to be fierce,
pushed and pulled by waves:
earth, water,
water, earth,
you have arrived just in time. White stone my talisman.
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