True Fresh
The geometer wishes he were David
cut from stone by lightning, his mind
gyring wide into figures of space
out of time, ever gauging the shock
of the word for the pathos, ever
slinging the rock of his wound
at the sugared glass of me.
I'd rather be the artist
himself, arms overhead atop
a scaffold I built to the heavens
and still immortal, than perfect
frozen in stone, however larger
than life in the image of God,
the shepherd who slew the enemy
of art with the dead aim
of righteousness, the rightful king
by love who would anoint a covenant
he too could not keep and too late beg
forgiveness. But I always felt beautiful
by comparison. Need feels that way
at first. Finally the harp grows
weary of other viscera wound
to snap across its polished body,
the ceaseless plucking of its chords
as if in play, turtle shell weeping
hollow with the psalmist's ancient grief
four thousand years of liturgy
could not unspool. Finally
the harp would string
its own guts, would sing
itself to sleep, like the artist's
breastbone pressed flush
against the ceiling, plaster
still wet for the color.
Genevieve Arlie, "True Fresh" from Tupelo Quarterly, vol. VI, issue 27. Copyright © 2022 by Genevieve Arlie. Reprinted by permission of Genevieve Arlie.
Source:
Tupelo Quarterly, vol. VI, issue 27.
(Tupelo Quarterly)