So Cellini jumps off his deathbed and gets every conceivable

kitchen utensil, plates, platters all made of pewter -

they're thrown on the fire.

He's got his heat back.

The alloy flows through the mould everywhere it should.

He has won the transformation he so badly wanted.

And Cellini has a wonderful, vainglorious sentence

for what happens.

He said, "I revived a corpse."

This is the mine-blowing masterpiece the tourists don't notice,

as they're too busy doing selfies

with the copy of Michelangelo's David nearby.

But if they did give it a minute or two,

they'd see Cellini's outrageous miracle in bronze, hard metal

that somehow gushes hot blood

and writhes with snaky horror.

Perseus, head down, armed raised in triumph

like some sports champion with the ultimate trophy.

All the ancient Perseuses and Medusas

contrasts between beauteous hero and grotesque gorgon -

not here.

Cellini has the genius crazy idea of making them interchangeably,

androgynously beautiful.

Boy-girl, girl-boy, both looking down.

Even the hairdos aren't actually that different -

tousled curls or writhing snakes.

Cellini is a sorcerer, an alchemist.

He's made hard metal sweat with the exertion of killing.

He's turned that hot alloy back into liquid,

the blood coursing through the hero's body,

the blood pouring from Medusa's sliced away neck.

And, remember, even dead, her look could kill you.

So Cellini has one bit of mischief to play out,

at the expense of his hero, Michelangelo, no less -

positioning the sculpture where it would seem it had caught David's attention.