after Egon Schiele
Look at me, cock in my claws,
comb-crimson from scratching.
Skinny arm kinks round my
back, but can’t kill the itch.
The hand can’t scratch its bone.
I snapped off the black arrows
but their featherless beaks peck
at the sacs. Their broken feet
scratch in the scattered flesh.
I stretch the canvas on the rack.