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Posing Nude I was ready, (clean as if it were going to be something fun like making love or sensual like eating with my fingers) when you yanked me free of fantasy, twisting, sorting and placing me into your perspective piece. I did not want the soft part of my feet and the back of my knees to speak for the passionate side of me. It was a good thing you worked quickly as my languorous fiction slipped and was replaced by a leg cramping perch on a crate of old books under a draped kitchen chair with a wobble. You sat below and crowed for serious stillness. That’s when posing became a favor I would call in. Finished, I unwound my sweat slicked legs and didn’t need a cigarette. When I was hung on the gallery wall, strangers took the long trip up the back of me to the soft curls on my neck, sprung and damp with the heat of every lamp in your apartment. You showed me, bare, in a lingering stretch and it was more like sex than I had ever guessed. |
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