Early on: four hours
spent combing
the model's hair,
Intimate, informal hair -h
hair with its hair down.
How she supports it: after the
bath, against the cascade of a towel,
her ducking head. Scalp-strain
alleviated with a flattened palm -
the pain of tugged hair.
True to life/true to art: a twist
of her hips, toss of her head,
roundness of buttocks.
An elegant back absorbs
small bones, her flesh is warm.
Later: timely as today
the female form is pushed to the limits.
As he works obsessively,
the painter's encroaching blindness
pitiful for her to watch.
Only this: after
the final rendezvous
a small trace
of scarlet pigment
remains tangled in her hair.
"That's a bargain. A fine edition,"
says the owner. "I'm really looking for the poetry
of Robin Hyde," I say. "The New Zealand poet.
I've been reading her biography."
Later, across the street in a cafe,
over latte, I read a poem to my daughter:
When lilacs in the dooryard bloom'd
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
She's not impressed, would rather
look at the waitress's black one-sleeved top,
or her coloured braids and tattoos.
The poem reminds me of war,
and of springtime in England when lilacs flowered in our garden:
the way my mother wouldn't let us cut
the branches and take them into the house
as it would bring bad luck.