Dean Kostos

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.
—Nicholas Gage

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,
     heart-roots snap

from muscular memory:
     Aeolian harp-strings plucked,

a lover cupping the warmth
     of your manhood.

One eye: Leave; the other:
     Stay, stay.