Galatea

By: Arshia Mathur

Oh Pygmalion, you carved her with your own hands,

Molded the marble to the contour of her waist,

Chiseled the stone to mimic her idyllic expression,

The final product; she is a well-sculpted statue

You carved her to be divine,

Affectionate hands chipped away her ivory flaws.

Oh Pygmalion, alas, your ecstasy of creation

Did not stop with the chisel,

Your ivory sculpture became a human nymph,

With unearthly eyes and holy lips,

Her skin marble-like, flushed with blood.

Oh Pygmalion, you breathed life into her,

You, a man, ordered her to materialize,

She, a mere woman, obeyed your command.

Alas, the unfortunate curse of being a woman,

Follows her throughout, like a ghoul of woe,

A marble sculpture or a celestial nymph,

A woman is doomed to succumb to the man,

Galatea bows to Pygmalion, a slave of his chisel,

And spells out her gratitude for the bane of being.