Longing for her thighs as long as city blocks,
For her hammered skin once the color of a new sun --
One of her knees is bent slightly, the sandaled foot
Upraised and balanced on the toe as if
She's waiting to be kissed.
Overproud, alone, she is remote and guarded,
Stately in her exile, silent, stranded,
A giantess in a land of tiny people.
The closer I get to her, the less of her I see --
She is too great for the naked eye to handle.
She says: give me your tired, your poor,
So I am drawn to her battered island,
To the vaulting heights of bolted metal girders,
To the sculpted features of her graven visage,
To the framework of her thin-worn copper structures.
I stand before her in the wind that makes her
Resonate like a bell. Everything smells of salt
And ancient pennies; metal, sea.
Lady, I swear this to you by the birds that wheel above:
I am yours. I am like you. I am yearning to breathe free.
©
1999 Ellia Bisker
Originally published in Helicon.
