After the Painting by Gustave Courbet
Sheet pulled up over your arms and your head,
Thighs open wide and pudendum on show,
I can’t help thinking you look like you’re dead.
Awkwardly sprawled on a grubby old bed,
Sallow and silent as any Jane Doe,
Sheet pulled up over your arms and your head,
You’re not a girl but an object instead.
Would you have freely exposed yourself so?
I can’t help thinking you look like you’re dead.
Please don’t explain to me that I’ve misread
X, y and z in this picture: I know.
Sheet pulled up over your arms and your head,
Voilà-your public identity’s shed,
You’re Everywoman. I get it, although
I can’t help thinking you look like you’re dead.
Few paintings feature a girl with legs spread,
Flaunting the parts that she has down below.
Sheet pulled up over your arms and your head,
I can’t help thinking you look like you’re dead.