ɪɴᴜʀᴇ [ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ]

xɪᴠ. ɪɴ ᴀᴛᴛɪᴄᴀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀᴘʜʀᴏᴅɪꜱɪᴀ

Pygmalion carved the waves of the sea
        across a woman's hips.
        Ships sailed, navigated through the calm waters of
her ivory lips — mariners favour the passive ones.

A crone offers the blood of
        a hawk for Aphrodisia.
A hawk, not a dove — a bird all the same.
Plucking feathers, the creature
struggled and strained in her grasp, silenced by
the chisel that punctured its flesh, pierced its chest and
carved away the excess.
Freedom, shrieked the crone, is a

social construct. Freedom does not exist for
eros is a prison and Aphrodite shackles not
those who are filthy, foul, feculent.

In Attica shall no man have his wishes granted.

Pygmalion kneels at the feet of
        the goddess of love and beauty.
Palms stained, sinking into the blood of a dove as
he prays, leashes his desires — conceals them behind a white veil.

The hawk was replaced, gave way to
         purity for Aphrodisia.
A dove, not a hawk — a sacrifice all the same.
Caressing feathers, rough fingers
gentle before Her — deities favour the passive ones
whose eyes shut for the ideal dulcinea.

In Attica shall men have their wishes granted.

In Attica shall Pygmalion be granted his Galatea.