Emily talks of Freud.
I hate him.
It was this new man, Freud,
who made them see only sex
in my paintings.
But Emily slows me down,
the flowering of ribs and pelvis I painted today.
Here is your desire, she says.
See how you have wished it upon paper.
It is a woman’s mind, a woman’s hand, a woman’s voice
and you didn’t even know.
See how it shines from the inside, out.