and that is to say the vestige will haunt you
again tonight. Your rubbled body submerged
in starlight. Take pillar as bone and arch
as the curvature of your spine. You cannot talk
about bodies and you will realize this poem
is no longer about you. Neither is it about
the intricate archeology of a self-righteous
daughter. Sometimes you imagine what it means
to rebuild antiquity. Your father an architect
in a past life, kneeling over converging parallel
lines and Brunelleschi’s dome. Wonder why
he was praised for mimicking the archaic as if he
could bring back the deceased. You decipher
revolutions from cryptic dreams. It’s deceptive,
how you will mistake dawn for rebirth.
Master stoicism and perhaps you are not human
anymore. Shapeshift into Michaelangelo’s
David, pose as artwork. You will be loved
and nothing more. Meanwhile, a historian
will confuse marble for creation, silence for
survival. You will learn to paint over punctured
history as erasure, framed into a façade of illusion.
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