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.
The Ekphrastic Review
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