I seem to have molded a statue,
An unclothed form in a fighting pose.
She from ambivalent clay arose
With not a portrait’s sly smile
But with arms and legs in tight
Formation, holding a weapon high.
Tribute or insult? Truth is daughter
Of both and friend of neither.
Whether victor or vanquished,
I cannot decide. Either to shield
Her protectively, a loverly medic,
Or fall and surrender, or at least
Call truce. I admit, were I her lover,
I would not have thrown her
Into battle, even the rear guard.
War is not too hard but too small,
Petty, brutal and forlorn.
She is too beautiful to waste
A day on something stained and torn.
She might squander with me
An hour, a day, a year—and we may fight
With petty words, or even end a time
Bereft and sad, forlorn—but war
Defeats the victor and victim both,
Its temper not cloud but storm.
Yet she stayed warm and soft and idle,
As if no blood or muscle could strain.
She remained moist and supple,
Like grass giving after the rain
When we lay together on the lawn
Gazing at my statue—and we laughed,
Recalling either of her earthly forms,
Because what sculptor needs a blade or staff
Who has a woman in his arms?
EJR
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