There is the Mona Lisa,
Who looks flat chested at best.
You have multiple opuses of Renoir
And the impressionists
That flirt with the female form,
The rounded breasts in particular.
And Gaughin gives it more fire power
More variety, painting the French
Polynesian culture. Still a female
Portrait, in particular a nude, is not just a glimpse
At what overruns her, it is a stitch
That forms an illusion, that when curved
Around hip-basin, and sparsely vegetated
Makes even the sharpest eye
Prone to exaggeration, when muse
Becomes the collective ensemble
Of little cameos of gaze, the embroidery of bristles
On hemp, that unveils a vision
Of one man, a visual to the beholder,
And an alibi to the reclining subject.
Human fabric, can only be an
Anatomical universe, with black holes
Constellations and orbiting satellites,
All of which makes the human eye
A telescopic lens, that collapses
Everything to one defining plane,
To accentuate and hide in serial strokes,
Perfection adjacent to imperfection,
A rib that became the apple.
And the apple peel that stole the eye.