Life Class
Written by Diana Syder
I know not to begin
but wait for the settling
of breast and buttocks,
the sorting of angles and shadows
and save for later
her thigh-sheen and deepest darks,
last of all her red lips and orange hair
I’ll never dare paint.
I set what might be
a loose line
from shoulder to waist
trace the spine’s furrow
sweep it in to shadow.
Each time seeing’s the problem,
but at the end of the day
I know her well enough
to verify the rise and fall
of all those planes,
to touch the make-believe
of her surfaces.
I wonder if she knows
I’m no better than the others,
nibbling her postures
and swallowing her whole?
And does she realise the danger
of squandering colour on strangers?
Perhaps I should warn her
tell her how the thin face of herself
grows paler with each wash.