After the procedure she wants us to imagine the lines of Bernini’s Daphne. She says: think of the symmetry, no, the balance. Think
of the skill it took to mold her. She says: see me, the composition. I picture taut canvas over a new frame. A drape of wet cloth. She shows a pencil line of baby-pink.
She says: there are always splits in the clay. I try to see heat cracks in the short, parallel strokes that cross my torso.
Maybe a cubist’s dream.
I want her to call what I have done
Emily J. Cousins lives, teaches, and writes in Denver, CO. Her poems have appeared in, or are forthcoming from, The Laurel Review, Axolotl, Palaver, Word Riot, Saltfront, the Sugar House Review, [PANK], and elsewhere.