A statue, an inescapable she. With fins, from a house of seashells down by the seashore, the myth of birth, and love, and war, and wisdom. Vertebrae of whale-bone. Her skin a baker’s fondit rolled out to glaze a wedding cake, a butterfly’s wing held by forceps. A Latin genus, a Greek goddess, a to-be-named hurricane. A city-state statue, fires burning plot-by-plot, an amphitheater to carry the sounds of angry crowds. Statue of cupid, of creepy flying creatures. Statue of Eve minus Adam, the flesh of a red velvet chaise, flesh of a death wrap, flesh of a wound before the blood fills. Statue of a country western song, the white mouth of a ceiling, statue of snowflakes that do not melt on the tongue. Daughter of memory, the statue forgets to walk her dog. With her feet resting in a file of “Missing Objects,” she sleeps through the century of the revolutions because she witnessed the crusades. A throne-seated princess hears wishes close-up. A lady-in-waiting fluffing pillows in malaise. A birdbath, a looted urn from an Iraqi palace, a half-horse hood ornament. A Darwinian statue that chooses which child to keep. A statue plus her mirrored image board an ark. A statue inside an egg inside a basket, inside the black box of a plane. She has a front and back, a beginning, but no end. She needs no help undressing. A statue lives in a garden, but basks dans le jardin. She, calcified from the breast of a breast. What is the opposite of an apocalypse? She is a statue of that.