Why I Am Not a Sculptor



If I were a sculptor
I'd carve in stone
The face of my beloved

I'd sand the surface
Of the stone
To smooth perfection

Because art should represent life
As it is, and as
It ought to be

But I digress
At a moment when discipline
And precision are most required…

I'd chisel her perfectly
Centered nose, on her perfectly
Symmetrical face

With care and concentration
I'd reproduce the mystic
Contours of her forehead

I'd round out her chin
And save her lips
For last

Then I'd compare
Her sculptured features
To my own

A grotesque genetic mixture
Of master and slave
Of Native and Negro

My weathered face
Overexposed and
Burned to a deep hue

I'd ask her:
Is black still beautiful
My African queen?

My Goddess of the Nile? 
Or has that fashion changed,
That style gone out of style?

But I digress again - 
I am not a sculptor
I am a poet

And these words are
All I have to preserve
In time, for time,
The beauty of my beloved

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