At the Palace of Legion of Honor, S.F. 
–For Rodin
 
Heavy limbed, but with energy,
my marble self with severed head—
three shades lighter than it was before,
moves away from man and his muse,
moves toward my shadow spirits
with their willful expressiveness
and unconventional poses.
 
I tried to carve men out of rock
like the hands of God
now turning things out
but still looking back
at that idea that still lives
in the house of many rooms
in the woman of many moons.
 
History is in the foreground
with her neoclassical features,
still fertile, now chaste,
eyeing Royalty and his robes
covering himself with luxury—
dead animal furs gilded
with bourgeois guilt.
 
Now I separate the waters
of past and future
with my hands,
move freely between
the interplay of curves,
admire my own
asymmetrical motifs, glimpse the profusions of self
 
like agapanthus,
working the land with my hands,
the trees planting me,
struggling with soil,
digging up bits of history
like a fortune teller
in a neopolitan age.
 
Now standing in the round
in the museum,
refined by sensuality,
roundabout drawn
at last
into the world
by color and form.
 
© Eskimo Pie Girl