Four Poems, by Gabriel Meek

Winged Victory of Samothrace by Unknown (Greece) c. 200-190 BC. Louvre Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The Goddess of Plastic Figures

Headless and armless,
a goddess alights on my shelf,

enshrined in all the glory
twelve inches of plastic allows.

Dinoflagellates stitched starlight
into carbon long before Nike,

Winged Victory of Samothrace,
landed on the prow of a trihemiolia,

proclaiming ancient triumph,
long before her statue was smashed,

her glory forgotten, before the bits
were carted away, rebuilt in the Louvre,

hidden from Nazis, given the Daru Staircase, 
before we learned to change star-carbon into petroleum

and yearly cast her into 49 plastic statuettes, carted home 
in backpacks to adorn bookshelves and trophy cases.

She means something else now—her stylized shadow
on every swoosh-bearing jacket, hat, field, singlet, and shoe

hides her with overexposure.
We forget her.

But not the plastic figures. They share her star-carbon
and know the power in billowing, harrier-wide wings.

PEZ dispensers, Funko Pops, Hasbro toys, LEGO minifigs,
plastic dinosaurs, even a Kenner Nien Nunb with blaster,

lining shelves on plinths
in the Museum of Obsession, 

turn to her as shocked Grecian sailors, twitching
alive like Small Soldiers so they can raise their laurels.

To them, no other likeness of anything
is higher than she.

Caryatids of the Erechtheion by Unknown (Greece) c. 421-406 BC

Sestina for the Caryatids

There was no such thing as an empty plinth.
We stood where we stood, each unique braid
caressing our necks, supporting the weight
of baskets, dates, and stone together, but you
joked about dropping our burden. You alone.
Despite the roof on our heads catching the rain.

From our porch we watched the rain,
stood beside the flowers’ concrete plinth,
watched you run into it to dance, you alone,
pointing your toes, flailing your braids,
soaking in through your hair the weight
of all that the sky could give you.

But in your dancing, unbeknownst to you,
time                      chipped                      like rain.
We tumbled under the weight.
Unbroken, returning to plinth
you blinked                      at crumbled braids.
If one of us could remain, it would be you alone.

In the light of the early morning, you rose alone,
scampered to stand,                      you
turned on the lights, braided
mystery with rain,
cleaned our empty plinths,
dusted dust, and waited.

Is it heavy                      to wait
on time? You alone
could do it. You filled your plinth
every day, found ways to bear the load better, you
stood in the weather,                      let the rain
unravel                      your braids

until water was the only remaining braid.
And under all that weight,
you gave up on rain.
                      You stood alone.
And from our crumbled eyes, we watched you
sigh, wave goodbye, and step off your plinth.

When you used to leave your plinth to dance in the rain,
we complained that you were the stress on our braids.
But we did not help you carry our weight. That was you alone.

Helen Keller Statue by Edward Hlavka (United States of America) 2009. US Architect of the Capitol.

Bronze Fingers, U.S. Capitol Building

In the places where steps have smoothed
and divots formed, molecules departing on shoes
for centuries until stone steps become stone scoops,
those are the same places where you will find me.

In our abruptness and sudden abandonments,
we forget that repetitive human action also digs
into the world. We erode our surroundings--
sometimes even slower than water and wind.

I want to tell the seeing children to stop;
go ogle at Jeanette Rankin or Kamehameha,
but stop taking these bits of copper and tin away
on your hands. I see like they do; I want to touch it too.

But millions have brushed the bronze message
into oblivion for the fingertips that come to read.

U.S. Capitol Rotunda by Various Artists (United States of America) 1818-Present. Ingfbruno, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

A Plan for Removing Residue

the composition of tear gas is designed to disable;
tear gas is a structural maintenance nightmare

You should not be here like this, say the statues.
A visitor cannot leave the simplest gift or offering
(no cornmeal, no leis, no “I Voted” stickers),
but as you run, you leave behind your flags and cans,
your plastic bottles, cigarettes, and blood.

no such thing as easy tear gas remediation

A tired congressman brushes the marble, bronze, 
             copper, brass, the tile floors, the solid walls
             and columns. A custodian tosses the hat
             left on Ford’s head, blows dust from the curls
             in Grant’s beard, bags the plastic debris.

but remove and dispose of all porous materials:
carpeting, padding, cloth furniture, draperies,
materials into which tear gas can penetrate

What to do with the plaster and canvas,
the porous faces of Pocahontas, Tecumseh,
forebears, thinkers, and inventors?
Even War and Peace can crumble. Do grisaille
and oil eyes sting with the bite and spice of gas?

in most cases, porous materials cannot be cleaned completely

Our permanent representatives—a king, pacifists,
             defenders, farmers, immigrants, guides, astronauts,
             poets, and even a cowboy artist—continue their work,
             lingering in figure and image, and they will not forget.
             They cannot—their eyes are ever tear-tracked.

Gabriel Meek

Gabriel Meek is a poet and teacher from Spokane, Washington, where he earned his MFA from Eastern Washington University. He is fond of movies, museums, and monsters.