In 1886 I came apart-
I who had been Mme. Rivière,
whole under flowing silk,
had sat on the grass, naked,
my body an unbroken invitation-
splintered into thousands
of particles, a bright rock
blasted to smithereens;
even my orange skirt dissolved
into drops that were not orange.
Now they are stacking me like a child’s
red and blue building blocks,
splitting me down the middle,
blackening half my face;
they tell me the world has changed,
haven’t I heard, and give me
a third eye, a rooster’s beak.
I ask for my singular name
back, but they say in the future
only my parts will be known,
a gigantic pair of lips,
a nipple, slick as candy,
and that even those will disappear,
white on white or black on black,
and you will look for me
in the air, in the absence of figure,
in space, inside your head,
where I started, your own work of art.