has cracked,
paint flaked
and fallen away
at places,
as Leda,
lost in thoughts,
looks away
from the swan
taking her
these last five centuries,
the intended object
barely present
in her mating,
only in flesh,
only in paint,
only connected to the swan
by his presence
in her
which goes unacknowledged
by her.
No ecstacy
or pretended orgasm
even for a god,
no fear
even for a god,
no tears,
no pain,
no resistance,
not from Leda.
The brush has placed her
into this endless intercourse
yet she is lost in her thoughts,
half a millennia free
of the avian
and its thrusts
that never climax,
half a millennia free
of the male gaze,
Leda.
28.07.2026
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