Jess was only ten when the first pods washed up on the shore. She'd been standing with her toes dug into the sand, letting the cold Atlantic Ocean swirl around her ankles, daring herself to venture ... [+]
I've always been curious
about the identities of old statues.
The minds
behind the cool marble and bronze
that now lie behind glass cases
and plastic name cards.
How did they come about
being immortalized
in stone?
Were they just strangers
whose profiles
lingered in the minds
and the hands of the carver?
Were they friends,
children,
servants,
lovers?
For how long
were they implored
to remain still?
How many requests to
straighten themselves,
to lift their chins?
Did they ever dream that
many years
into the future,
their images would be
in all manner
of book,
of photos, and merchandise?
Perhaps, for a fleeting second,
they did, only to shame themselves
for such vanity.