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K e l l y   F o r d o n


Aristide Maillol: The River


I couldn’t stand my ground. My foot snagged, landed in the mud. The river took me on a wild ride. No branches to save me. I’m sprawled half off the plinth, as if I just fell moments ago. 


The truth is this has been coming for years. 


I won’t lie. There were moments when I liked the pedestal. But I’d had premonitions: half off, head angled, breasts defying gravity. In puris naturalibus. 


I am a rock. 


Just a minute ago, I was checking my hair in the mirror, just a minute ago I was gaping at the scale, just a minute ago I was planning to move on, move forward, change track, make something of myself. It was the time right before the flood, the intruder, the runaway car, the diagnosis, the lightning strike. 


When I heard the river rushing I didn’t run. What does that say about the pedestal? What does that say about its tenuous allure? 


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