This poem is about art, culture, death, and life.

I would place it in Brussels, at the Jewish museum.
Mlle. Victorine, an Empiress in a Matador
Her doves’ eyes open wide, her shape curved, not slim.
The melodies, I Believe by Zamir played forevermore,
If I could paint a saxophone.
Mourn under the enormous brass horn,
Three slain mist with cologne;
She hangs in all her vulnerability, with her maker, she will join.
She is framed in financial despair
Eviction, threats on her life;
In a depressed state, while child rearing with care,
This magnificent beauty hangs, despite pain and strife.
Stress fractures compound inevitably,
As the brass instrument hangs joyfully.