We've become too literal:

we can't take a joke

or a pill or a chair

without prodding, sniffing

like scientists:

there's a story

about a man who kissed

a statue and it came

to life— well, what then?

Did she tell him

about his bad breath,

the way his mother

folded towels was wrong,

that he “smothered” her?

Or was she, new to the world, not

concerned about hygiene or habits

or her own dull prospects?

Want to know?

I can see her: poking at herself,

not trusting a mirror,

kneading the thin skin

of her arms, angry

at being made real.