“I saw the angel in the marble, and carved until I set him free.”
– Michelangelo
“Bullshit,” said Bernini
From beneath blistered hands,
Stubborn eyes stinging with limestone grit.
He muttered where he knelt
& cut & cut & cut &
Sent light scattering across all surfaces.
He whispered fervently at start of surgery,
Armed with chisel & scalpel,
Praying not to strike a vein.
He bit at stone & stone bit back,
Blooming bruises on knees & shins
As marble landed blow on blow.
He sputtered as his aging hands
Betrayed him with uncertain strikes;
Rasp & file missed their usual target,
Carving flesh in lieu of marble.
Wasting in his bed, he cursed
His fading frame, & peeling
Plaster from his wounded hand, he
Saw crystals where cuts had been.
He lifted weary arm & heavy bone
& through translucent flesh saw
Veins of black coursing through ivory stone.
They deemed it a stroke, and buried him under a slab of
shapeless marble.
