Bust of Wisdom

…where there is doubt, faith…

The book was placed
on a slant-top pedestal
like a Grecian bust
of Sophia

I decided to take inventory of her
checking from many, (though
surely not all) angles

Dragging a wooden stool
from the nursery, I step up
to peer down onto the top
of her marble head—so hardened
was the surface, I discounted there was
anything beneath that was worth gathering
a hammer and chisel for—and step off my stool

Squaring off face to face, I stare into the contours
of her inanimate eyes, the unbreathing nostrils,
the unspeaking lips

this illuminates?!

In a last effort, I whisper into her
stone ear, hoping, praying that
Sophia will hear, and by some miracle,
wake up,
react,
reach for me,
reveal herself,

but she does not,

so cold is she,
even a nod she doesn’t extend