She was created in nineteen thirty.
Six decades later someone took her head.
The artist made it hard to take her arms.
The flowers she holds are “Uncertainty.”
She’s called “Memory” for the Great War dead,
Whom she salutes with her physical charms.
She stands in a park by a middle school,
The bad dream of each child — poet or fool.
My dear, I do not need to see your face,
Or know the name of who modeled for you,
To describe yours as intelligent grace —
You know all war dead are less right than true.
When new your limestone breasts were pure and bold —
Unlike you, stone flower, death won’t grow old.
