Pulitzer Fountain, New York City
She has all the advantage. Two sculptors
for her single body. Bronze prepossession. Bare arms
muscled as if she plucked each apple in her basket,
then scythed the reeds to weave the basket—heaping on peaches
and pearls of snow. What seasons?
What death? She’s seamless as light. She doesn’t even need
the fountain she’s standing on—its layercaked Christmas trees
or summer spritzing. She’s a one-woman waterfall
of whatever. Could toss the basket on my head—see
how she leans—then fill another. She could mint money
out of bird shit. Go everywhere in mink coats
and the minks still living. What climate change? What protests?
She doesn’t even need breath in her body. She’s her own
Roman empire. The champagne porch of the Plaza
glassed-in now behind her. Bellinis for all
who can afford them. She’s her own 1%
chance of radiance. The drizzle we try to catch
like that girl I watched turn all of Trinity Cathedral into self
with stained glass. Self with organ, self with hymnal, with column
like she was a caryatid lost from her ceiling. I wanted to ask her:
isn’t anything sacred? Why not find a belltower and think of God
and deformity. But how is that different? Self
with ancient story. Space shaped like what we’re not
can conquer all desire. Self on a memory card can conquer
all questions. What price these smiles? These abundant
deletions? Where’s the best light to look human?
