I could describe this painting, but quite frankly
If Harmony Hammond wanted
Eyes all over the hands that made it
She’d write an essay and be done with it. And she did—
Give us the essays and painting, and hands—
But somehow the world’s forgotten how to read. 

Dear Harmony, I want to shout this painting
From the rooftops–
The cold cord cut, knot, cut again, knot again,
Hanging useless in its eloquence,
Bandaged/strapped down/cradled
/Renounced by voracious eyes,
An empty pocket painted over. I counted:
There’s nine knots total
And each one just breaks me more.

How do you do it?
How does the bandage snap so many times?

I spoke too clearly. Some guy in the audience just raised his hand
And asked for a helpful chart of sex acts
Corresponding to each of your brush strokes
And I’ve never respected you more. Pass me a bandage—
This painting is incomprehensible, and I have
A blindfold to tie.