Sophia

Wisdom comes and sits by my side,
a sculpture of the finest material made by Greeks of old.
brown olive in color, graceful,
the center of attention wherever it goes,
behind the clay, hiding–
a poet!

it lays with me,
sending movements of its lungs in my mouth;
alcohol, lemonade,
clay brought from the East:
soft at touch
yet, hard to create something that makes sense with it.

my skin touches through its form
to confirm that what it’s being touched it’s real:
eyes, nose, neck, cheek…
both hands rubbing through its shape,
I go away;
lips.

I am the sculpture,
she is me.

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