Saturday, March 25, 2017

Eighty-Three Percent Complete

She was iconizing. When I met her she was
eighty-three percent complete. They had finished
mixing thirty shades of purple, blue and lavender
with gold, the color of pale wheat, into an orange
porridge of cement, whose crucial part in turning her

into immobile art she had at last relented to accept
and lend assent. As she neared the full extremity
of being placed so unextractably – immaculately
and exquisitely positioned into the invention of her
own meticulously measured space – to encase

her in posterity – she had a moment, while she still
could breathe and speak, if not quite blink or cause
her cheek to blush, or eat or drink, to tell me just
what she had come to think about her destiny. Had 
she wanted it? Not at first. But it had slaked her thirst

for an identity. At last she could be fixed. To iconize
effectively meant to homogenize into a steely, known,
describable, unparalleled exactitude, a singularity
whose moral etymology and sense could be ascribed
religiously to myths of her as mistress of far greater

powers than had been imaginable in mortality.
She’d have a provenance that everyone would know.
She’d be admired and remembered and invoked
and undergo a transmutation from the flesh back
to the word. As that word, she would be heard.


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