Her skin is smooth—
poured from a mold
and sanded down to shape,
always shaping, fingers tracing
the right curves, the perfect
imperfections.
Cold and grey, she doesn’t yield
against my touch.
There is resistance—
the cold tang of stone
against my lips.
Fire is her eyes,
the reflection of burning
behind us. Don’t look—
one command, one rule,
don’t look—
I looked as her body hardened.
Life dried from her,
leaving this statue—
a monument of sin.
JKolasch
Jacob Kolasch 
From Blink to Lot’s wife there seems to be a president for this; a time when that which was lush and human turns to stone and becomes unreachable. A time when communication ceases and there is no more…
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