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Integrated with a Spurious Head

—Museum caption on the statue of a female deity, recently 

             Again this wobbling dread,
this discombobulated pang, as though
             my armature’s been bent,
       or the scale is slightly different
                    between my torso
       and my alabaster head.

             What so upsetting? Really,
      this trip you’re packing for—it jars me
             less than your insistence
             parting isn’t torture.
       We touch, divided by no distance
                    miles can measure.

             You say I should relax:
whatever seas sleep rocks you on, my arms
             fathom you through dreams
       removal from me never wrecks.
             And once your travels start,
                    each night apart

        sails you closer home; a journey’s
soonest finished once begun. “When a person
                    who must embarks,
                    tears only worsen
the going.” Can being cavalier appease
       such sadness? I say your logic sucks.

        It sucks my salty heart (no stone,
although until I met you it was marble).
             Departure’s glacial arrival
       shatters me. I’d meet its blue
             expanse with you, and with you
                    stare it down;

to you and you alone I’d bare a face
             sorrow’s freezing rain carves
channels down—but then your breezy stance
abandons me before your body leaves.
             Alone, I shiver on
                    the brink of maudlin. 

Still, I’m learning. After all your goings,
             I find balancing’s
a skill that practice hones. It’s true my poise
                    is largely ruse,
                           dependent
             on some borrowed fragment

 cobbled with cement, but I finesse
       my gaps so they resemble grace.
Even you I’m closest to no longer
             notice if my kilter
                    skews, or the pucker
       quivers as I blow this kiss

             goodbye from your resolute goddess.