The dress is itchy and the corset
is cutting and she’s sat on her bum
far too long for one day. She wishes
for the squish of mud between her
rebel toes, a breeze to stir this
fussy hair. A horse to canter her far
from here. He is hmmmm-ing too
loud as he studies her right cheek.
Even her freckles want to run. She’s
done being the spectacle of this paint
brush, longs to escape this canvas cage.
She’s not even allowed to close her eyes
to imagine the night sky, stars falling,
moon calling and the howl of wind
that might take her anywhere
but here. So she dreams aloud with eye
-lids open, pretends these poppies are
a study in beauty itself, quietly stretches
fingers set for reins and toes aching to
dance under ebony scrim. She wills her whim
to wait and bates her breath. He brushes on.
Poetic Asides April Poem a Day Challenge, day 2.
OMG i feel like this all the time!
Me, too, man. Me, too.
Lovely lines to your artist model ‘even her freckles want to run’. Some vey fine rhymes within too – and a new word for me: scrim