On a Statue of Eros, after Lysippus Not a plump cherub with a fragile bow but a young man—lithe, dispassionate— stringing a heavy bow made for the hunt: to strike with havoc, or to pierce with grief; to end a life, or wound it beyond healing. Not bow nor body made the image true. The face was set in study of its task, unknowing how it seemed to the observer— and it was callous, beautiful, astute: the face of Eros carved in helpless warning, with art as accurate as the god’s, but powerless. Wisely fearful stone whispering to flesh. Tony…