Henri Matisse, 1907-1908, oil on canvas

They look at it,
not each other. The only one
standing holds something in her
mouth—food, a finger wrinkled
by the water, a question
wrung dry.
                     The one sitting stares
down, wrists tucked in her thighs,
one big toe hiding
the other.
                   The shame
I feel here—how did I learn it?
How many drownings
deep-ended in me before
this still surface?
                               And what does being here—
a place all horizon, each of us wanted
once, then grown tired of—teach me
about my own body? My hairless
skin, my delicate scar, my eyes, black
slits? My sisters, exotic
and never to speak?
                                     How could I
trust your desire? The force
of your hands, the wild
of your lip, your paleness
flushed—how could it be
for me?
               I am not this vessel at my feet,
this small, slow, strong thing. 
What can feeding it do
for this hunger—the one
you gave me, the only one
I know?