In the Sight of Her: A Revision

What made her let a man (one of those

who had stripped her of so much

that was hers) illustrate the trauma in her.


Oblivion is the only constant.  But now

there’s a book with both their names

immortalized by her


vision.  His sketches could never

understand what floods the heart of a girl

child split in half before


she even knew her own sex.  She let him

assemble a mosaic of her

brokenness into the only vision


any man can see.  She doesn’t want

his depiction of her to be

anything less than a sacrament of communion.


All she offers is the sight of her

flesh, in all the crudeness of nudity

skillfully covered with stories


about creation made from dead languages.

His brushes can’t stroke

the harp’s strings.  Someday


her catgut will seduce the strings

like Mozart, and she’ll know

why anyone would choose that.


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