carve me from your sculpting block,
o Artist. chisel any blemishes from your
sight, for i am yielded to your tools; bare to

the Sculptor is my marble form.
like michelangelo and his david,
would you rid of me the pieces that

aren’t of you? i promise not to mourn
what is shorn from my marbline mold.
instead i rest in tender hands marked

by garnet wounds, for i am fashioned
gradually to the living stone you had
in mind. radiant in your eyes, gleaming bright.