The Sculptor

You reached for my feet
as though they belonged
to you, kneading them
like a fine-bodied clay,

pressing, smoothing,
running your fingers
over wrinkles, calluses,
probing crevices, shaping desire.

What of me had danced
for hours adored
your need for art,
acquiesced to your proddings.

When you were done,
I could scarcely walk:
these feet connected
to all my other parts.

University professor emerita retired with a PhD from LSU, Cordelia Hanemann is currently a practicing writer and artist in Raleigh, NC. Her work has appeared in such journals as Southwest Review, Connecticut River Review, and The Laurel Review, anthologies The Well-Versed Reader, Heron Clan IV and Kakalak 2017, and in her own chapbook, Through a Glass Darkly. She was recently the featured poet for Negative Capability Press and Alexandria Quarterly. She has written monologues for performance and short stories. A native of Southwest Louisiana, she is now working on a first novel, about her roots in Cajun Louisiana.

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