Sitter

She would make him sit just so: stripped bare,
muscular, circumcised, white skinned, elegant, shivery;
would rip masking tape from a roll to mark round his toes
on the carpet, round his hand on the chair.

This would stop him from moving. He’d know
he must strike this exact pose again and again.
She’d draw his face, full-lipped, his strong chin blue
like Desperate Dan’s, big eyes a child’s not a man’s,

would pay him a better rate than he is paying her
to sit unclothed looking at a cactus on his sill,
hands on her knees, feet planted at such an angle
he’ll see it, glancing up from his easel –

ruby lips parted, streak of ochre down his trouser leg,
one fist needled with little brushes, the other hand
darting – see the uncontrollable droplet of
menses roll down her inner thigh.

Window-glass marble black. Night sky blocked out
by the room’s reflection in which his head cocks
like a tom-tit as he measures an earlobe,
triangulates cheekbones, turns her soft face hard,

as the slow red tear plops onto her chair-seat;
as, behind the canvas, screened off,
one foot taps to the crescendo of a sonata,
his elbows pointing out then disappearing.