Greek Torso

Ronald Wilson

We mount the fragment on
a steel rod, call it torso
of a man, as if carved that way,
in a modern, close-cropped
style. The stumps of arms and legs,
the neck, dismiss their old
attachments: This is all you need,
the vitals, all you can trust.

The figure's first and gravest
injury, the sloughing of skin-
colored paint, we cannot gauge,
and only guess what look, what gesture
head and limbs spirited away.
Stripped, the gentle contrapposto
hangs like a question above
the stub of a penis, echoes
our own phantom ache
of wholeness.