Rifle Butt Blood

Painted together we watch and wait
for the woman to come alive.
There behind the Plexiglas hive
she sits in an elegant, sitting stride.
The artist in question signed but a name
below her right buttock, naked shame.
Arms folded front of house,
she’s the lost and weary white lady spouse.
A fine figure drawn with ink
let slip not a thought, or an awkward blink.

Back turned to all who look, everyone
wastes a glance toward the books,
lined like soldiers in the Somme brown mud
who look down on the girl with
rifle butt blood.