I summon the sculptress,
her hands small, I imagine,
but fine, unlike mine long with blood
from cutting up cattails. How I dig.
How the sweat of her knew work,
how this is a guest in the body, a ghost,
what we host in us. To configure one
in plaster, to haunt the eye with white,
to cut through white. Life stolen by
one posture. Nor can I “stand any longer
the screams,” but I cannot dream
of seclusion though life holds me to it
while I crack among stones, trying to not
ache in the arms of goddamn Rodin.