Pygmalion

by Jane Rosenberg LaForge

When stones crack along
the denser axis,
no amount of lotion
can heal them, bring
them back into a single
formation. My father,
ex post facto, was always
complaining that my
mother let herself go,
as if she were a statue
and had begun to settle
like dust in a whirlwind,
or teeth worked down
in their wooden substitutes.
There’s no palliative
for what is natural,
a matter of years
and balance against
pulleys and grooves.
My mother did not believe
in hokum like rose hips and
serums, commercial
tales of rebirth and renewal,
so she split at the heels,
along the spine and
temples, and was never
forgiven for living her decline
in sight of bullies and fools.