By Revti Gupta

“Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling”
-W.B. Yeats, Sailing to Byzantium

Slate drape of your dress, cradling
Memory of stone, of quarries spent,
Granite chiseled to mold
The pleat in your skirt.

You blink, come to life,
Bow to a child’s twisted curls
And serenely incline your
Head at the coin.

But the silver veneer
At the base of your neck is cracked.
And cotton betrays your
Dress from its stony home.

The next day you are gone.
In your stead is a loud young man
Pulling flowers from children’s ears.
Ventricles of these streets pulse differently.

Though I have seen you before
In Dublin, London, New York,
And will see you elsewhere, speaking
The same language of smooth silence,

I still want you there.
And the third day you are back.
I watch you take a coffee-break,
Hunched over on your pedestal.

Your back is to the crowd.
There is silver on the
Styrofoam rim of the cup,
Peeks of pink on your lips.