The inclination to ask her her name
To satisfy a curiosity
Is defiantly met with a blank stare.
There is no Aphrodite to melt this
Galatea into a living nymph,
So - though not her maker - I may kiss her.
The church is named for Saint Cyriac
Who had to cast out demons in a girl,
But she doesn’t look the type of maiden
Who once entertained the Prince of Darkness.
She’s neither a simple Virgin Mary
Nor a lady of the nearby manor,
But I’d like to think she’s a village girl,
Lover of the local Pygmalion,
Who caressed and fashioned the yielding stone
And, when she was living flesh, did kiss her.