But you will only see what she allows.
Her sister upstairs has, no doubt, passed on
Her own wisdom in dealing with the crowds,
And she has let herself be captured so
As to show it. Stood in the frisking flare
Of all these camera bulbs, you know she knows
Exactly how to carry herself there;
The shoulders almost hunched, not quite careless,
One thigh lifted as if to move, the span
of her unshowy breast in the caress
Of years, eye-kissed, earning her name, more than
The crowd packed into this museum wing
Can understand, but concealing nothing.
This sonnet is taken from Tim Kiely's debut collection Footprints, which is available on Amazon kindle, here. It was originally published in Ariadne's Thread. It is reproduced with the poet's permission.
Note: The Venus de Milo, by the Greek sculptor Alexandros of Antioch, is in the Louvre.