Saw one of those pictures a while back. Wrote this...
He rearranged my face.
He beat it black and blue till it became
A broken benchmark, archetype of grief.
I am a camera. As his great work grew
I froze it carefully in fat quarters
and quilted it together in the dark.
I make his art my art, he makes me his.
Scary, surreal; I declare myself
his muse, his mistress, his amanuensis.
I am a soap-soft baby armadillo
curled in a shell, hard and impregnable.
He is spooning me out with a palette knife
breaking my face, scraping it back together;
making me weep because it is important.
Because women are suffering machines.