By Alice Courtright

Pygmalion

When was it that I, who was making you,
Became aware that you’re now making me?
I lie back, astonished to receive you.

These hands of mine held the metal chisel
And carved the shape I was seeking from you.
I ran my fingertips around your heel,
Sanding the cold stone until it was smooth.

So patiently have I been seeking you.

The oleander cast its last shadow,
The thin moon rose over the sandy hills.

The night and day were as nothing to me.

My clothes and skin, the old wooden table,
The tall glass bottle, the forgotten plate,
The long grass, the uncut blocks of marble—
Every surface was covered with white dust.

Now, you who were stone hover over me.
Your hands that pulled heat from my open palms
Now pulse with a living warmth, pulsing now
With a knowledge I have never possessed.

I cannot speak, I hear my ragged breath—.
Your fingers find my secret rivulets.
You trace the rough curves of my weary face.

O Wakened Beauty, O Galatea!
I thee worship. Remake me, quiet me,
Reveal to me—show me all that you would—
Your flesh is my temple, your direction
My only desire.

Alice Courtright lives in Hong Kong. She has written about dance for Oxford Poetry, the New York Times, and Pointe magazine.