Anna asks me to help her move the garden statues:
the petite Grecian woman bent over the well
is to stand beside the front door; the matching
Grecian man sits opposite; a gift from her husband.
I don’t like him: he is badly cast and his white pockmarked
hands pour a bucket of nothing into nowhere.
Anna tells me from a distance the pair seem graceful.
I imagine water, and the woman watching
continents of clouds slide across the well’s surface. And the man,
if he was kind, would look to the curve of his wife’s back,
see her hand’s small efforts, before hauling his own bucket
to the fields where only that morning
he’d planted radishes, and carefully soak the tilled earth to black.
For their sake, I hope they are labouring
in the mild evening, out of the heat of the day;
that they’re able to talk of family business in a language
that only the two of them know. Is this what my friend
sees from her kitchen window? A man and a woman,
their deep comings and goings? Or does she see two figures
frozen in a moment of emptying and emptying?
As I bend under the man’s weight, Anna asks me to speak plainly—
Do they work together?
Her voice pours like water over stone.
It’s been a few months since I posted one of my own poems as a Tuesday Poem. “Statues” has gone through a couple of revisions and will be part of my doctoral thesis. For me, I like the quietness of the poem, and the subtleties that come with that.
For more Tuesday Poems check out the hub.