I like the idea that 100 years ago,
he sat at his table and carved
a nonsense beast and people
exclaimed, “it’s an illusion”
but he knew it was a self portrait.
I follow the lines of his anguished face
and hunched posture and I imagine
smoothing my hand over his
as he put down the tools and block
with the imprint of his inner demon
in relief for all to see. I know,
I would like to tell him, how that feels.
And he may turn to me and see
nothing and say, this is us inside.