Marshmallow Chisel

She cast me a glance 
an easy wink
laden with Saturday morning coffee
and rumpled cuddles —
when we strolled in woollen comfort
and embraced by frosty firelight,
sharing toasted marshmallow kisses.
 
She snapped her fingers
pulling me back to her sunlit studio,
and the steady tap 
tap of her hammer,
smartly striking
her cold chisel,
chip by chip
revealing, smoothing,
muscular curves.
 
“You see”, she said, “I
only remove that
which is not
him.”
 
She wiped her brow
blowing puffs
of dust
from his roughened, marble frame.
 
“A man shaped from a rocky block must be chiselled  
but” — she tapped her hammer extra
hard;
“someone needs to be the sculptor.”
 
My face warmed with rubescent heat
and my head felt like a marshmallow chisel
as she threw me a dusty kiss.