>after Magritte

She is dead, of course; already
her heart stilled to a stone.

Breasts lush in the Elysian fields
of her skin where summer burns
the mystery of collision; this outcome
of ingenious interaction; this pathology.

No line defines anything.

She is still sex. She is
the bridge and its traveller; the insistent
vibration of journey. She smiles as
an extinct enigma; a more fully
realised Mona Lisa. And more

…she laughs
because she has read the philosophers.

She is a painted transience – a memento
mori for the mirror-bidden blind. Those
who look upon her should see everything in one:

one grotesque hybrid which, because of
the truth it contains, can
be nothing other than beautiful.

Previously published at Counterexample Poetics


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