Written by Aeshna Kumar

My Galatea stands upright.  

The arc of her back is perfect —  

I stand at attention  

when I see her in the doorway.  

She must have soft parts,  

dark, dewy places, loved by worms, but

the doll maker wrought her skin from ivory,

not porcelain.  

Her eyes are cold glass that no  

light can


her glossed lips, always wet,

her lashes, too, are always wet.

She shudders on her back, 

the rose in the heart of her throat as

red as blood.  

Her breaths so shallow,  

she could be dead —

Alabaster statue,  

where do your eyes tip?  

When you turn from me,  

a thousand images dance through my mind

from the medieval to the gothic:  

tarrings, and twisted wrists,

women kneeling in squares, catching

falling clumps of hair —  

I should love you,  

yet I am content 

to lay under a sloe sky and  

eat what strawberries i can pick from the bush.

Aeshna Kumar

Born in Kolkata, India, Aeshna Kumar has lived in many different places in her short life. She is currently based out of Cork, Ireland.