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,
Her eyes are cold glass that no
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 —
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.
Born in Kolkata, India, Aeshna Kumar has lived in many different places in her short life. She is currently based out of Cork, Ireland.