THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2006

  Gina Wilson
COMING TO LIGHT
 

I've taken a ruler to my naked
bronze, and he's eight inches tall,
the whole of him potentially containable
within one pudendum. His own
unmentionable, the focus
of his smouldering downward gaze,
is five millimetres long
(contrast with his big toe, six).
He wears thonged sandals, exposing
all toes, but concealing, regrettably,
both ankles. A delicate, decorative
shaft, possibly an arrow,
hangs from one shoulder, its point
embedded in a padded wristband.
He has roses in his hair, tapering
fingers, and round buttocks.
'Pretty!' the auctioneer whispers,
his lips to my ear. 'Don't let him
go!' Which is why I'm giving him
a rub, standing him up,
prominent, here in my hall -
while I start to redefine Grandma,
who's been hiding him all these years
at the back of her bedside drawer
behind embroidered lavender bags
and her mother's King James Bible.

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