Her flesh finds fissures in the ocher, mask
and mantle, lures—a flushed cheek through the eye
hole, tapered chin in wide glazed ruse of mouth.
The girl she wears is headed for the low
world, other shadows; here, takes two cloaked men
to swagger that three-headed dog, four blue- 
jeaned legs to stomp and fume the master’s lust.
Big figures, epic craft. And yet, enshrined
in plaster, gesso, pulp, each glimpse of skin
bares elder mysteries—that slack male arm
up roan Demeter’s sleeve, an elbow’s crook
askew in indigo. Huge armatures,  
tall tell. But through those gods, small hands charm far
within, far stranger source: a girl, the dark.