Poem Every Day in July 12: The Truth Comes Out


The women in Romantic paintings
are not always dainty. I admire Truth,

who pushes against beauty––
anger in the hoods of her eyes,

honesty in the folds of her skin
and fat as she climbs.

No mascara could glamorize
her whip’s brittle, broomy eyelashes;

her breasts fall so that her clavicle
can be fully confrontational;

her fingers are designed to propel,
not to nurture. We’d all do well

to meet her sunken gaze, to hear
the black voice that booms

from stone to stone, and to know
that the naked creases of her flesh

are a warning.

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