Clay

If my body were clay,

I’d be the finest sculptor.

I’d work each hour away,

The masses my consulter.

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They’d tell me what makes art beautiful,

I’d listen and form a mold,

Reshaping, reshaping till suitable

To the perfect standards I’m told.

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Michelangelo’s David would cower,

Rodin’s Thinker would search his mind,

Wondering how I’ve the power

To embody celestial design.

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Each inch shaped to perfection,

Each curve deserving a place

Among mankind’s selection

Of the best of the human race.

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Though I am no sculptor,

My body may once have been clay.

How dare I stand to insult her,

The artist who made me this way.

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Each inch she tenderly shaped,

Each curve she molded with pride.

All imperfections she scraped

Away until satisfied.

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If unfinished, she wouldn’t have fired

My figure to immortalize

A work to be admired,

A body to be glorified.

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If my body was clay,

I had the finest sculptor

Who made my body this way,

Just so I would love her.