Torso

My fingers dance over the slab
of Bardiglio, where a bulge calls for
stripping layers of finely grained, gray
stone so her shoulders may slowly shrug
awake. The stone is a palette of gray — slate, ash,
pewter, and November, and her black veins
strike eyes with the hardness of a March fog
in Cambria. Of course the stone is imperiale.

Her future is told by running cold
water over the block — every dimple
and imperfection marked by the slow
tsunami of the frigid bath. If luck
is with me, the form remains
rather than flees.

I begin by chalking neck to thigh, then glove
and safety glass up, for the angle grinder
and diamond blade. Mask and ear plugs
seated — the vibration of a thousand rpms
shocks my forearms as marble dust sprints
to every corner. I tug down triangles and squares
of pewter stone that preserve her modesty,
until neck, shoulders, then breasts emerge from
a static silvery sea.

Gary D. Grossman
Eunoia Rev November 2024