The Cot
(by Kathleen Kirk) John Sloan, The Cot (1907) I cannot make myself real to you, nor make myself understand what you want here in the shadows. There is no way out of the room. There is nothing but the bed. And my slip is the same smeared white of the bedclothes, your imprecision. You say you are a Realist but you let my skin melt into paint instead of you. I know it isn’t simple. I do not pretend it is easy. What if I am here to challenge your impression of me? (from Beauty / Truth: A Journal of Ekphrastic Poetry, Fall - Winter 2007) |