All a Woman Can Be
As of yet, I have not incorporated other writers on my website even though that has been a goal of mine since the beginning.
However, this post marks the momentous occasion of offering you some wondrous writing other than my own.
This writer will be remaining anonymous for the time being however, she has created a gut punching poem based on her perception of a work of art that is shared at the bottom of the page which should be viewed after the reading of the poem. (For those curious it was written in the form of an ekphrasis poem).
I would like to also warn the reader, this is a poem written from the inspiration of intense trauma, please make sure you are in the right head space or environment before diving into it.
All a Woman Can Be
Oh, what were the color of her eyes?
The angle of her nose is unknown.
The spiritual shape of her hidden womanhood
Her chin coming down in curves like thighs.
Her hypnotic shape and body distract me.
What was her name, again?
All I could see were her sensuous breasts.
Round, supple, enticing, and full of life,
suspended and resting in the wrong place.
Her eyes were replaced by her bosom,
mesmerizing me enough to disrespect her,
and it makes me undress her only a look.
My gaze slips beyond her wide cleavage
and slides down to the center of her face
Where her nostrils should inhale,
there instead rests the divot of a navel.
Her midriff tempts me to touch,
a nose, now an erogenous zone for pleasure.
I have thoroughly undressed her now.
Her body is bare all for my viewing.
I know the shape of her alluring physique,
but something isn't quite right.
I don’t know her face like I do her figure
nor her name or the color of her eyes.
All I know is the rush of my nonconsensual touch
and the way she sobs my name.
René Magritte, Belgian, 1898 - 1967
The Rape (Le viol), 1934
Oil on canvas
28 7/8 × 21 ½ in. (73.3 × 54.6 cm)