pygmalion's lament
if it is true that all we are recycles and exhales
then you have shared the air of Adam
still heavy with scent from the Paradise Garden
in the soil of your skin a legacy of earth bears traces
of violent cities unremembered
the blessings of saints long since forgotten.
you were carved from the stones of Mount Ararat
by the echoes of feet in holy places
that here march onward, their life still trembling in you
while in my palms I bore you and gave shape to you –
and I whisper the truth to you like a breath
onto your tongue, into your thirsty bones:
o love, you were created by the hands of magicians
in the shadow of an echo of the tinpot god
who stands between us, an alphabet away from death.
my darling, return now to your dust.
