(Hieronymus Bosch, c. 1490-1500)
and what remains of us? A plateful of cherries
spilled, half-eaten, a breast forgotten, dangling
from a torn bodice, men bellowing drunk
nuns plucking lutes, blind to children
begging naked in the water and
the fool we raised on high to guide
our leaking vessel, canvas torn, paint
cracked with age or by his rage—prophet
to some, profit to others, gold soured
orange, body bloated, brain shrunken
tongue kissing his reflection and each
passing cloud, leading us wherever we
allow, as he grabs a nipple here,
a crotch there, points his tiny fingers
laughing at her and her and her
and me, just women—
mast sagging, rocks ahead,
the deck tipping, men laughing
as I cry “Stop!”—what a joke
and me the fool
to think anyone can see
the ocean reaching up, thirsty—
Copyright © 2019 by Rose Auslander.
