Poem Beginning with a Line by Dante Rossetti

Because dear God the flesh thou madest smooth

seems moments ago molded, who had

stared before on her, sheen of new

limbs, wet taking shape, lifewind blown

to penetrate pores, rainwater runneling

in soft torrents? Those smatterings of blackbirds

and finches, those nearby scrubby trees, her loofah:

even these seem to possess the painter’s

stout gaze, usurping human’s very matter,

a haloed canvas splashed with our suffering.