All things counter, original, spare and strange in Khujand, Tajikistan

The Entombment

Dear Peter Paul Rubens,

Did it pain you to rip and reveal that cadaver?

He might have been singing an aria

Through all your first sketches,

His head flung back in a swoon of love

Like Correggio’s Venus, the mourners his cupids.

But then you gashed sharp in his blood blue skin

And you killed him, Paul Rubens.

Are you sorry?

Am I?

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