I will make you better
You promised, and for a time
I believed you
When you called me
Your caryatid stolen,
A marble statue of a woman
Crying out for her homeland;
Your vase thrice fractured, hairline
Fissures, fault lines traversing
My clay visage.
Broken things
Such as myself
Are meant to be fixed
You said, a technique
Learned on your travels
Through space and time,
Above and below.
And I choke now as you pour
Molten gold down my throat,
An aureate agony I strive to sweat out
Through my eyes, rolling back
Into the darkest recess of my skull
As I’m petrified into submission
By Midas’ touch.
Caryatids, you say
Weren’t always bleached bone
But vibrant color;
When earthenware crack from use
They are sealed with veins
Of godly gold.
These are only some of the things
That are true.
While you deem me sufficiently
Purified,
I call my fate a burning inferno.
Artworks don’t speak
But if they did, their crumbling voice
Would never be trusted
Over that of their self-appointed
Conservator.
Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Pushcart-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra’s work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, The Future Fire, Space and Time, Eye to the Telescope, and Glittership. “The Saint of Witches”, Avra’s debut collection of horror poetry, is forthcoming from Weasel Press. You can find Avra on twitter (@avramargariti).
photo by Simon Lee and David Tovar (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 