I Am No Blank Slate
He thought me a marble statue of the Ancient Greeks,
admiring the soft sheet that silhouetted my curved form.
I do not argue that I wear drapery elegantly,
nor that I feel its weight like Aphrodite de Milos may her carved stone shift.
A great man cut her final form in which she still remains.
She has no way of changing it.
As it was for her, his praises of Beauty were the knives that shaped my unfinished skin.
He knows each fold of my history, for he molded most of them.
My history is his story.
My heart was first to harden, then my feet.
I feel their weight.
I am no blank slate.
more by A. M. LAINE
photograph by Alex GindinHire An Editor
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