I see in artworks
Painted strokes
And marble sculpture,
Pliant bodies, nubile virginity;
Searching fingers pressing -
Squeezing, searching
The pliant flesh
With aggressive male virility.
Scenes of agony and fear
Bring fresh pain so near;
The memories and thoughts
Still tumble, fresh like shame,
Upon my canvas.
Was I ever art, or just another
Nubile plaything?
A feast for greedy eyes,
That hunger and lust
For beauty without love,
Or the gentility of respect.
When I see these arts
Magnificent as they are,
I cannot smile
Or gaze in awe,
For I feel raped over again -
That burning shame still raw -
As my poor foremothers
Have felt before.