The Angel in the Marble

I love the weight of a knife in my grasp

The hair on my arm stands at attention

Like the tickle on my neck of spring’s gasp

As if ‘twere butter, it cuts through tension

I thrust the hardened blade forth, piercing flesh

Each cut, each nick made to my persuasion

The body sits still, not once does it thresh

Each score tells more in land of abrasion

After his bris, David is completed

Basted with glaze, then thrown in the oven

A smile creeps as I smell him heated

When the world sees, I will get good lovin’

Oh wow, I think to myself, what a day!

I’m Michelangelo, and I love clay.