I imagine Van Rymsdyk with music
the ripe swellings of the orchestra
swirling through the air with
the dust of his chalks.
The room is heavy
with the expression of his art
as he leans over the corpse
before him.
The holy body, he knows
is a medical one
before him, the mystery is laid bare
the gravid uterus
set neatly on the table
on his paper
the real and the idealized
both existing under his hand
under his eyes
his gristly muse,
this mess, this mass.
Occasionally he shifts,
hoping to catch the morning sun
streaming in, choked with motes
he needs this light
this fragmentation,
the bits of mother
remaining around the infant,
narrative displacement.
Even though the light is dim
his eyes have trouble adjusting.
Atlas Rourke is a historian and writer living in New England.
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