Binnorie
by Theodora Goss

What is it about being made into a harp,
your bones as smooth as poplar, about being strung
with your own hair, golden or black or brown,
that presents such an appropriate allegory
for being a woman, and therefore an instrument
of fathers, husbands, or sons? Or is it rather
an allegory for being a poet, which is
a different thing altogether, I like to think,
although poetry can command you like a father,
berate you like a husband, and abandon
you like any number of sons?

(The painting is The Charmer by John William Waterhouse. This poem was published in my collection Songs for Ophelia.)