Naked, Sitting Bent Over
(Vincent van Gogh’s Sorrow)
naked, sitting bent over
so her head rests on her arms
that fold over her knees, her stringy hair
straggling down her back, a bulging belly,
hanging breasts, weeping unlipped,
useless as flab,
cow-heavy with unseasoned love,
joy prostituted, future raped.
if we could see her face, would we see
swollen red eyes? or is it
too hard to move the heart again?
has the soul become a jaded stranger
digging through the dirt of this world
for just a glimpse of itself?
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