Ofelia Looks for Anger at the Metropolitan Museum
When she learned women can be anything, she didn’t know
they just meant allegory. Evening’s one bare breast
sloping like moonlight toward her ribs, or Beauty’s dress
slipping past her nipples, skin smooth as—sweet wine?—the soft bloom
of columbine? (when it used to mean a flower)—or Purity
absconded from personality, that rustling hive of body
just winged marble soul now. It’s terrifying. Like the rapture
or a taxidermied cat. All glazey eyes and curves
hardened to hold meaning in. How not one will ever flinch
or drop her thorn of vice, or wear a sweatsuit
with Sweetie written on the ass to sleep alone. It’s hard to argue
specifics with a concept, but she wants to say Memory,
set the fucking mirror down. Stop gazing all dreamy
at how dreams and youth must fade. You’re like a Barry Manilow
song, each word headed for ruin, like that Dietrich movie
where she played a model but the censors censored
all her posing, left the statues. Cut blood and flesh
and woman. Song of Songs. She’s not a prude, but sometimes,
you can keep your clothes on, like in this atrium
airconditioned so the art won’t spoil. At least
Cleopatra (with her handy asp) has attitude. A name
you could name something living. Here, Cleo! Here, Kitten!
Here, Nydia, Blind Flower Girl of Pompeii. Everyone loves
a good martyr. How resigned sorrow had banished her smile,
but not her sweetness. How she’s nobly groping
through rubble, breasts exposed to mean whatever
a woman’s body means after a volcano explodes
and it’s raining hot, invisible ash.
Alexandra Teague is the author of two books of poetry: The Wise and Foolish Builders (Persea, 2015) and Mortal Geography (Persea, 2010), winner of the 2009 Lexi Rudnitsky Prize and the 2010 California Book Award for Poetry. The recipient of a Stegner Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, and the 2014 Missouri Review Editors’ Prize, Alexandra is Associate Professor of Poetry at University of Idaho and an editor for Broadsided Press.
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