Andrew Wyeth Keeps Women in the Woods
Andrew Wyeth keeps women in the woods.
First Helga, then Siri, their bodies white as breath
but more solid. They’re his paint ghosts,
detached from truculent flesh.
Wyeth arranges their bellies, breasts.
He wants women expressionless, their faces empty,
Helga pseudo-brutish in her green loden coat,
striding Teutonic through the forest,
eviscerating fragile brush with rage-black boots.
Or displayed carefully on a cot, her
breasts sliding away from her center,
like uncontrolled eyes rolling near her ribcage.
She’s like oranges, fluorescent, juicy sunbursts
heaped high in a blue-china bowl. Or slipped into a deep pocket
of shadows where her eyes disappear
behind lavender crescents. Recessed, he loves her. Schadenfreude
woman, savoring each skewering glance. She has a husband,
someone Wyeth suspects penetrates her flesh.
An inconvenience, like Siri’s father
till Wyeth persuades him: Give me your daughter.
Good man, let me plunder.