To the Young Woman in the Painting
Dear Melissa,
You were always bolder than most.
A dare in your stare and behind
your smile, a sly sneer, like now.
.
Melissa, The Bee Queen priestess,
an apian familiar hovers near, a subliminal
hymenoptera hum. Another avatar is
Jerry
the ladybug on your shoulder; coleoptera,
the armored wing; the damselfly
at your throat, odonata zygoptera.
Warrior woman, I am neither surprised
you are in your own vignette oval, nor
that you mock Rembrandt’s Athena.
Your breastplate of cranberry size beads
is as crimson as your posing lips.
A ochre armor bodice protects your breasts,
four pairs of sunglasses are your visors.
You gaze at me with your clear right
eye from behind thin blue tinted lenses.
Switch pairs. Alter perspective.
See everything through new eyes.
To be provocative does not
make you hostile, and though
the painter has forever made an object
of you, only part of you is hung
on the wall, in some well lit hall.
All your other selves can run free.