Sculptor

By Keela Dee

Your chisel cracks my stone,
carving out
dimples, refining
as each crumb
flies off my base, harmful,
unnecessary. Your point
prods and pierces, leaving
me silently yelling, staring
at now empty space where
my rock had just been.
My set eyes couldn’t see
my masterpiece forming
at your fingertips.

For years, I hoped
you would just drop
the hammer, let me be
left alone to collect dust
and passersby could gawk
at my intricacies, or even
hide me in a room out of sight
simply so the pricks could quit
and no one would see you hadn’t
yet completed me.

Now I pray you break me,
strike your gavel down
until my fault line
spreads, shatters my figure
into dust. Let me feel each
punch of the mallet as you chip
me away into nothing. Then
take my rubble, mix me with water,
and cover your eyes, immerse
your palms, blanket your chest
and stand outside so the world
can’t see creation, but instead
Creator.