The Makings of a Woman

The Makings of a Woman




I wonder,

    If you made a woman a statue…

Would it only be the most available stone you would use?

    Would you take to the stone with a tool to strip away at it’s defenses,

Carving away at the rough interior to create only utter perfection?

    Would you study the works of Ancient Greek art to fully grasp it,

Cow each hand of a woman was crafted?

    Would you find in the stone, tending to hacking and scraping it, which way made the most slender nose?

    Perhaps it pokes up just a bit,

To give a more feminine pose?

Would you sand out the skin?

A smooth stone is a perfect one.

But a statue is only a stone.




I wonder,

    If you made a statue into a woman…

Would you trace the very tips of your fingers along the surface of her skin to feel its texture?

    Rub your palms into the hard collarbones that shape her chest?

    Could you find a material to compare to the durable feelings?

    Could you carve into a stone a collarbone that could endure more than the nights of sweet kisses hers have collected?

    Would you find each crevice and each wrinkle that was etched on her lively body and not strip her of those imperfections, but instead mold your fingers to those decorations?

    Could you fully look at ancient works of beauty and grace and tell her to her face she cannot compare?

    That with each bend in her fingers, every small line in her palms, she was creating a story.

    Could you find a marble glass, any mixture of colors to adequately arrange the wisdom and enchantment that was held in the brightness of her eyes?

    Could you place your cheek against hers, feeling its warmth and the coolness of her breath against your neck, and sand away at her flesh?

    Could you brush away at each and every moment of expression she gives?

    Each fearful stillness that glows on her face when she whispers, “I’m sorry”,

    Each scrunched up wiggle of her nose when confused,

    Or the arrangement of smile lines collection around the edges of her tear filled eyes with each… “I love you”?






If you made a woman a statue, what woman would there be left?



A woman is not forged by a hand,

A woman is not a piece of work at all,

A woman is a combination of stars that burned so bright they no longer belonged in the sky,

They belonged in a place that was dark like our Earth,

And they would erupt in light…

A woman is an enormous light,

Unable to be molded into just one desired form,

And enormous light that will purify the darkness of a stone world.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741