The Model Speaks

Make no mistake: I invited You to sketch me with your hand, To take that lump of charcoal From your box of tools And touch it to the canvas You put together with scrap lumber And a handful of staples, The cloth stretched Tightly as skin across bone. Don't be fooled: It was I Who allowed you To render my shape, I alone who draped myself Across your couch, And beckoned you with a look, I independent who allowed you To chip the excess From the block of granite, Instructed you in the ways Of erasure, showed you how To shade my undertones, To color my cheeks, To draw out the shadows cast By my curves, to properly illustrate How my hair tumbles down my shoulders. Don’t think too highly of your work. Don’t think that--your rendering Of my shape, my lips, My invisible wings complete-- That’s you making decisions As you crawl your way to me, All hands and lusts and knees As you kiss my lips Then down my neck Then slide your hands between My legs and kiss the lips There too. Paint me, beautiful boy. Sketch me, pretty girl. Whoever you are, who- Ever you are, do exactly, exactly, Exactly as I say…