Pygmalion

She gave her heart into my hands.

I sat still, blankly, while she looked
out of the western window,
working over in her mouth and mind
the way Prometheus gave rise
to Venus like some strange sea-stone,
    pregnant with perfect pearl.

And the pulse was warm, slow, even,
as a soft star, fallen from heavens,
  beginning to love its first earth-breaths.
So reverently I pressed and
punctured nails into its perfect skin and
tucked my clumsy fingers, one by one,
beneath its yielding pith.

As I held up to her that swath of bitter rind
  glistening in half-light
saying
"Dear, I will press from this star-skin
a silk that will warm your bare arms
when the dark night is cold
and your eyes are alone."

She stared, still, silent, from the glass that lay
between her and the fading west
while liquid light slowly began
  to drip and
  die upon the floor.

And there is time, indeed,
but she is a goddess, still,
as I remain a mortal man.