Galatea


If you must make me, discontent
to keep me half-concealed in
wisps of mists and silvered silk of dreams:
make me hard
and empty, clean.
The snowy lips untainted by rose-pink flesh,
the salt, the musk, the heat
by sweet smooth apple skin
(do not blame your sins on me)
Cool porcelain of virgin
sheen to run your roughened fingers
over round the hips, the thighs,
so firm. The dry, illicit lips between
the legs.
And inside?
Hollow, know the delirium of
light and luscious lack.
Inside, nothing but air,
nothing worth finding,
nothing worth desire.
If you must make me,
leave me perfect, placid
put me on a pedestal and hang
a pendant round my neck which reads
"Fragile: Do Not Touch"

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