people say everyone cries the first time they see the David. he is too full, too large, too determined. too truthful in the curve of the fingers, the eyebrows, still dreading Goliath.
Michelangelo: David is a man. A feeling, I SAW THE ANGEL IN THE MARBLE AND CARVED UNTIL I SET HIM FREE I SAW THE ANGEL IN THE MARBLE AND CARVED UNTIL I SET HIM FREE I SAW THE ANGEL IN THE MARBLE AND CARVED MYSELF HOLLOW, and I was all awkward angles. and I am afraid of shapes under my skin, continents, paintings without nameplates. and even David, head on, is afraid.
I sit half-off a one person bench, share it with three others. we all cry. everyone cries. to see David there is a ticketed line, an hour’s wait then a hundred people around his body, his pre-hero moment. we all cry, because David has yet to become himself. we know how it ends, me and everyone but David, know he and his slingshot conquer, live.
I peel away my skin, imitate David’s bareness, look for something besides nerves. conviction shreds the doubt-rotted lining of my stomach and something grows, the strength of the left hand around his weapon.
we cry because Michelangelo has carved us from stone, because David is lost, trembling, seventeen feet tall and unsure what he can be besides human.