The Sculptor

He thinks he is a god
perhaps because he’s
seen through flesh and bone,
formed breasts
from mounds of earth,
created his own father—
a graven image in profile.

He pours nectar in a cup,
licks ambrosia from wizened lips,
insisting the indulgences
please his wife
then asks if I am married,
looking for collusion.

Finding none,
he puts his foot down
with bombastic flare,
digs a heel into the ground
and cocks a smirk,
“I know the cut of your jib,”
he says with bluster.

But I am moored firmly,
unmoved by gods
and their theatrics,
preferring mere mortals,
their rough-hewn souls
and flawed finishes.

Poem ©2018, Jen Payne. Image: Calliope, muse of eloquence and epic poetry, Augustin Pajou, National Gallery of Art.

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