Your veined hands, more alive in ghostly Carrera marble, more human
towering three times the height of your Maker, curiosity beckons
those who flock to you, their Pilgrimage of Selfies, unbelievers
who barely look at you directly, refuse to enter your realm, stay no more
than a few seconds glancing up, then turn to seek exit signs,
eyes and ears blocked to power, beauty, unaware
of temptation. Your song powerful as the sirens’
your gaze through heart-shaped pupils disallows
looking away, your flesh and bones pulsate with passion.
I prepare myself, tether my body to the mast, take out earphones
that deafen that which furrows your brow, turns you
toward the future, away from the philistine masses and yes,
I am smitten by your large right hand gripping dolomitic limestone
you will throw in just a moment, and yes,
by your gloriously veined feet, smooth expanse of calf, thigh,
buttocks, back, that delicious meeting of curls
and thick broad neck, only to be mesmerized by your shadow,
that blurred two-dimensional rendering of what you are not, displacing
time and light, the way we all do, the way a daughter lives
with a larger-than-life father who continually looks away, strained
and concentrating on enemies unseen, danger on next horizon, a David
who failed to slay Goliath, the David I unmasted, and yes,
unleashed I ceased making pilgrimage, set out,
ever seeking, as daughters do, true Mecca.
WOW. this is powerful, Bonnie.