At the Louvre

It happened
on the celebrated stair to La Gioconda's gallery,
and for a breathless moment I could trace
insensate marble back through centuries
when something there within its stoic chill
began to churn
and breathe
and surge like heartblood
beating through its veins--
resounding to the mallet blows'
refusal to relent in their seduction
of its brittle flesh.

It was an enharmonic agony
of pain and rapture
not alone for Nike but for me;
the ship was gone
and Victory's pounding wings
will never mount the wind, defy salt spray.
Men say her face would make her mortal--
they would marry wound and glory
while I stand in awe.

Samothrace is my own obsession
stunning sense
and memory
and every impulse that I have
to walk the Louvre beyond that staircase
leaving Victory behind.
~