The Story Of Galatea Poem by Saydra Basta

A monument to his desire
His calloused hands round out her ivory curves
Perfect, he whispers
Mine, he groans
He carved her eyes only to see her own reflection
See how beautiful you are, darling?
See how I've made you all that you are?
You owe this to me
He gave her a body, not a name
Not a voice
He did not ask her permission
Her arms too solid to reach up in protest
And when his lips pressed upon her,
She could not scream
Not yet
But what fate awaits a man who dares caress her cold skin when it has turned to flesh
In it, a mind
In her, a heart
A woman has risen from his edifice of lust
Galatea, she demands
She owes this to herself, not to him
This voice is hers
This name
Heart breaks easier than ivory
When he tries to pare the cracks in the surface of her bones
The cracks in his illusion
Galatea, she commands
My body does not belong to you
My ivory bone
Born not of the hands of man
But the womb of the earth
My soul is etched in the places you will never reach
Oh foolish man
Men die
But the statues
The statues still stand