Avonlea Fotheringham

I think you would like me better as a Titian woman
at a painted feast, The Bacchanal—
she is reposing, naked, in the foreground,
a world apart from the background noise,
her mouth ecstatic, open, revelatory;
I think you would like me better painted
with an indiscernible brush
to make me more cohesive, and maybe
a little meatier; a renaissance ideal reclining, undistracted
by the bustle, and immersed.

I think I would like to be immersed;
I am a Seurat in a corset, with a different kind of bustle,
dissolving into dots by closing distance—
a quaint illusion, rigid on a Sunday Afternoon.
I am akin to a Picasso, standing all disjointed Before a Mirror
immersed in introverted contemplation—
fragmented and confused, and maybe not
the ecstatic masterpiece you wish I would be.

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