The Kritios Boy
In The Kritios Boy, the human form takes a revolutionary step out of the block of marble, turning his head and escaping the restraints of centuries.
Blank-eyed boy, what have you seen,
you who speak through your eyes’
hollows—each one a mouth, exhaling daimons
of wind? You have not bought storms
from ancient crones or Aeolus’
leather bag. You’ve learned the art
of tying air into knots. You’ve learned
to see distances lit
by wounds. Ravines perilous
as love. Metallic embroideries
flickering in lamplight.
When your eyes speak, one talks
of arrivals, the other
of departures, each a tunnel
away, your thoughts unspooling
toward the vanishing point.
Falling to the ground, your chiton
reveals the first contraposto,
before the word. History tilts
upon your hips, that movement implied.
Want surges into laurel-spine,
ichor branching through shoulders,
neck, face. Beneath your snowy chest,
from muscular memory:
Aeolian harp-strings plucked,
a lover cupping the warmth
of your manhood.
One eye: Leave; the other: