Kintsugi Caryatid—Avra Margariti

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
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

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)