Edith Sitwell and the Carnal World

4

The Sitwell family, 1900
John Singer Sargent

Switch the light source and it’s day and portside, London.
I’m holding an “I’m a Little Teapot” pose
though, red-garbed and hipslung, I resemble most
a fledgling pirate or a flamenco dancer minus
bosoms, swords, and music. When the crew arrives
and is jumped in with pets, best furniture and toys,
something’s left behind—perhaps a table beautifully painted
(then painted out) on which a box had been locked
with our voices in it. Though all speaks on in art,
of course, despite the dramatic mismatched clothes,
tidal drift among the watch, the way a craft becomes
filled with us while hardly ours, and even Father,
who tries to lower the broom each day by dropping
one arm along my shoulder’s red horizon.