The Wounded Amazon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art There are dozens of us, my stone sisters and I. Most lack some anatomy: a broken-off arm, legs. A head. But a small marble breast usually lies exposed, salvaged. I don’t need to see my sisters to know their right arms, always lifted in warning. Though we stand unhorsed we are always taller than you who spring from flesh. Look up, and you’ll see the splitting wound in our armpits, yet no pain cut onto our faces. We consort with your monsters—like hounds we nose out your underbelly, your soft secret unease: it’s you who are the meat. M. Cynthia Cheung M. Cynthia Cheung is a practicing physician in Texas.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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