Picasso’s War Period

by jdavidcharles

During that time he concerned himself with documenting the subtlety of each and every lover—hands seemingly mangled from nowhere, the face itself displaced, eyes decentered, carrying the whole of a continent’s conflict in the mold of the body.

But I couldn’t help but turn to you then, with the worlds of conflict seeded in our bodies, and say, “Really, Pablo? I mean, really? The whole of a war, the countless atrocities and abuses on all sides; the Gestapo; death-camps; the bomb and all the so-called radiation ‘tests’ on single black mothers, the impoverished, the disabled; the drug testing; the abuses within the US prison system, countless sterilizations; fire-bombings; the mounds of flesh and hair and gold, all caught up and reduced to the half-dozen or so fucks of a stodgy and aging middle-class, straight, white man?”

I’m sorry. There are wounds I cannot find the pity to lick. Poems better left unwritten.

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