As those women hardened,
Dulled by shame, delighting to make oaths
Before the gods in heaven,
Of their every lie, their features hardened
Like their hearts.—Ted Hughes, “Pygmalion”
but if this is about myths, then skip
to the last line. every story ends in stone,
and we have eaten our fill of cursed
women. our hands are full of those women
tricked or transformed, those trademark
wounds—some daughter of some daughter
of another, stronger ancestor, but for all
that came before her she has found the same
end. so skip to the headstone—here lie
the stone women, girls from amathus,
godless. the girls you warn boys
about, lost girls in search of a boundary
or sense of longing, in need of a lesson
in devotion. or, girls learning to love.
either way, only tales of wickedness
will last. like every cursed body, they lost
their flesh and good name—here lie
the stone women, of flint and shame, just there,
beware. the boy-king pygmalion looked upon
those hardened faces, those girlish graves,
and he hated them. he hated their lost
morals almost as much as their forsaken
unfuckable forms, so he made a better
woman, out of better stone. made her perfect.
he loved her and prayed she could love him,
too. the gods said, of course. and everyone
clapped for his creation. every cursed woman
saw that stone breathe with life at his touch.
every story ends just like this, so tell us
a new myth: one where she lets down
her hair, when she wants to, on the
dance floor, in a bed she chooses herself.
we just want to stand with her in her dark
kitchen after a long day of work, when she
opens her beer and her bra clasp. we just want
to hold her hand while it’s still soft.