Revisionist Poetry – “Plinth Politics” – Discussion #1, v.2

In the dim gallery a hush leans close.
Three sculptures arc into a conspiratorial semicircle —
a bronze hand scratches a map across the plinth,
marble brows furrow where battles once were scored.
They do not speak; they point with chipped fingers,
name cities like lit matches and toss them down.
One bears a child's palm impressed into its flank —
a fossil of a whisper; another coughs a scar of war.
They argue in gestures: a tilted chin becomes a flag,
a bent shoulder the outline of a refugee's coat.
No patron comes to translate; only the light
walks the aisle, counting the fissures on their faces.
They offer unfinished recipes: a torn treaty, a coin,
the small mercy of a hospital bed carved in low relief.
Art is not a sermon but a ledger — a torch handed
from one cold hand to another. If anyone listens,
it is not to buy but to learn.