Camille Claudel to Auguste Rodin
I have imagined your Hand of God
on the mound above my sex
as your eyes pierce me.
“Mignon,” you whisper.
You want me to be Rose,
pliant, tender of your world.
You want me to be muse, beauty.
But I am Camille.
At night, alone, I lie naked,
dream your weight over my navel,
stretch like your Venus,
every muscle expectant, inviting.
But in the chill I wither to Clotho.
Insomniac, I grope my way to the corner,
press my lips to the rough heel of Perseus
and become your living stone.