Pygmalion and Galatea

Back in the day when I would look into your eyes
And see shades of white and light unfurling off of Apollo’s dewy wings
I fancied you Pygmalion,
And I Galatea,
A man of taut flesh, a woman of cold steel.
Seen, but not heard.
But Texas ain’t no Mount Olympus,
My skin is too rosy to be forged by man.
Five years ago you threw down your chisel and sighed,
A completed work can only fade away to sweet oblivion.
I hope when they look at me
They will see how your hands slowly traced and redressed the pattern of iron curves,
Lips smothered hard hips and perky breasts
Eyes burned into the atoms of my very being.
I hope somehow they will see me nod in patient understanding
When I share with them the lament of domestication,
Feet that have traced the graceful calligraphy of one million years and zero smiles.
Oh Pygmalion, will they ever remember me, the coalescion of stone and eroticism?
Can the woman immortal ever be heard?

This poem is my work.