Will he paint my face
like he painted my auntie’s,
bright as a summer platter,
eyes like shoe buttons,
and all the colours loose,
shimmering, as if the world were a river?
The breeze is, at last, empty of winter’s bite.
I’m wearing my favourite blue-green dress,
more sea than Seine.
He spreads my loose hair wide across my back.
He says I need not smile or pose,
just sit still. Look him in the eye.
My empty hands, curled atop my lap,
look so white and thin. I imagine them full.
Imagine I am holding a golden pear.
