(published in Cheval 4)
Subtle, for him. Understated. Flattering even.
That first painting was angled with beauty enough
to lure me. Postman blue, pond green. Shy lips
and one eye, wide enough for two.
He sketched me furiously in June. Always
demanding my hair tumbled. Winding my fringe
between oily fingertips, breathing wine,
gesturing bottle after glass.
Every portrait a picture of a sculpture,
a Greek bust in Gallic July dress.
The signature brought the world to Vallauris
and each time I smiled at the cameras,
dimpled when he shared the lens. He painted
in the evening only now. His colours
darkened and he insisted my collar
inched lower to reveal secrets I would not tell.
In the last nights he sat me on his knees
I confessed he had become my second father.
He was sullen in August and relinquished
with the final composition, without goodbye.
The final painting revealed only my naivete:
my ponytail a noose for an old man to risk
his reputation, my breasts a rectangle of
rheumatic grey. My webbed ringlets, a duplicitous stare
and my fingers knotted in his frustration.
glynfedwards 