Michelangelo and His David, by Cecelia Tivey

in the depths of my dreams i see

michelangelo in faint golden candlelight

he chisels in synchrony with 

his ragged breath as david

      illustrious yet delicate

peers down at him.

a pure slab of concrete 

lies across the room

and i can see what 

could be carved —

the odd tilt of my eye

                                    the curve of flesh between my jaw and neck

                        the slope of my hips

the circumference of my thigh

                                       angular toes fighting each other for 

   the salvation i cannot give them             

but 

my curves

                  have not

yet been sculpted

by any man

let alone 

myself.

michelangelo and his david 

are intertwined

marble becoming man 

man devolving into

      sick obsession 

and i am rooted

to the ground 

stuck before he 

can spare me 

a glance

i am  jolted awake. 

greeted by the 

darkness of my bedroom, 

i am dimmed light.

inside me 

there are multitudes 

that i cannot seem to reach today,

but i will get there.