Speak, so that I may see you. ― Socrates
Wet hands on red clay, folding, molding it
into the Creator’s image. Cheekbones smoothed
by thumbs, eye sockets scooped out by
moistened fingers, orbs tenderly placed within
nose and lips built up, rounded, ears added last
to make sure they align, first coiling their ridges
and curves before tilting them slightly, releasing
them from the mass of the head.
The first golem, scraped from soil so new
it had yet to be tilled, named for Adamah (earth)
named for red, named for being made,
named for its red blood, a shapeless husk
kneaded into form, birthed by breath, thus granted
speech. Later golems, unable to speak, sculpted
with the irrepressible wish for the silent
worker, giant silent screens onto which we project
our loftiest and basest fantasies, uncontrollable
passions. I will lose this voice when I am emptied
from this vessel, returned to a mute mound
of clay. I have not dared utter my deepest words.
I speak yet remain unseen.