Girl, Alive

(i) Sonnet

The artist smokes and ponders as sunlight

investigates his model. Her posture

is quite good (in front of a sheet pulled tight

on the wall) face veiled in the aperture

made by her arms, the arms doubled over,

elbows to the ceiling, hands entwining

her auburn mane, so alive. Moreover

her arched back is almost redefining

his notion of the sensual woman.

But it's a strain to appear so relaxed

and calm and to retain that. She's undone

now by overdrawn muscles, overtaxed

focus, by the force required to lift one

leg and hold still and serene as limestone.

(ii) Free

A woman's look is a myth made

of her desire and our perception;

take this woman twirling for the camera

across the street, by the courthouse

steps. I watch her from my station here

on a park bench. I'm tossing popcorn

to pigeons and brooding over my own

lost love. To me, she looks altogether

the goddess, I can see her

perched on a rocky precipice

draped in a greek goddess rag,

a greek god's great lasso wrapped round

her waist, now broken free and trailing

into voluminous clouds, her face

light as joy itself, nothing in her aspect

but self-salvation and adoration of the sky.

Look, though, see that sullen fellow leaning

against the lamp post watching her twirl.

He must be the boyfriend

all jealous in his brown boots

and his boyfriend scowl. He detests

the way the photographer admires her,

detests the way she follows those commands,

"Turn now, dip, yes, a little flesh, a little shoulder,

very good, very pretty, up, chest out, fluff

your hair, that's it, that's my girl."

I bet he sees her as

she was this morning,

eyes puffy,

pissed off at him.