Summer 2014: Poetry
Weekend Wayfarers
by Elizabeth Stoessl
Inside the dead sculptor’s studio – dayroom for abandoned statuary – clay children sprawl, limbs fractured, patched with dust. Stray tourists wander there from the stone inn next door, flattening spring crocuses on their pilgrimage down the sea path. They peer at the scattered clay bodies through sand-caked windows. Waves rumble and mock their voices, their murmurs of weariness, flight and real estate. Mornings, I pour their coffee and eavesdrop on their wishful chatter: How they might buy it all, market the broken bodies, display them on the sculptor’s lawn. How they could be innkeeper, salon-holder, biographer of the sculptor and his loves. How they will be recognized in the general store. Late afternoons I watch down on them from my attic window. I plot gardens, private meadows of no ordinary flowers where they will never walk. They’ll leave Providence on Sunday trains, and for a while my clay children will be safe.
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