Nubile
by Devon Balwit
I lift my arms, instructed to hold
an
imaginary ewer, but more likely
to raise my breasts for the artist’s
delectation,
his tongue just visible
between his lips, his pencils rasping
over
the rough paper. I feel
his eyes probing and palping. My skin
prickles,
nipples nubs
against the cold. He is old. I imagine
a
younger man’s hands,
a younger man’s mouth on the tendons
behind
my knees, on the hollows
of collarbone and instep. In the steam
of
the bath, I kiss
where I can reach, taking hunks of flesh
between
my teeth to the point
of skin break, then letting go, watching
the
welted bite pinking.
Each Saturday I disrobe in the chill studio
and
stand before his easel,
watching him watching, watching my
doppelganger
as she emerges
on the page crosshatched ever more
fulsome.
I
go to the opening, the nudes
prudishly enclosed behind wooden
screens.
One
ducks beneath to see breasts
and vulva, mine among them, then back out
for
champagne. Some notice
who I am. They look and look again.
For
the first time, I drink
too much, and sway. For years, the drawing
languishes
in my parents’ basement until sold
with their estate. I have the chance to buy
it,
but
pass, spending just a moment
considering my younger self before
dismissing her,
lifting
the weight of so much nothing,
flushed with a now-sated hunger, her
naiveté
painful
to behold.
* * * * *
Devon
Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How
the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl
press); In Front of the Elements (Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going
Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag
Poetry). Her individual poems can be found in The Cincinnati Review, The
Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Fourth River; Glass: A Journal of
Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more.
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