Reverse Galatea

Then, as the singing ceased and the lyre ceased,
Down stepped proud Galatea with a sigh:
Robert Graves, “The Living Age”

Make love to a poet
and he will make you
(fill lines with light)
pencil scrawl
(prop the sculpture)
(sisters all)
his résumé.
You will be put on
No one need know
your name
once you become
a dozen poems.
Try to walk
off the page.
Be a screen
he reads
while his life eats
Your poems meet
to pound each other smooth.
Galatea’s mouth
spills his sea
without you—
a wary diction.

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