Posing for Picasso
When he slips his palm
beneath my knee, cocks
my head, arranges my elbows,
I will be only an ellipsis between
one undressed girl and another.
The rosiness of my cheeks will blue,
and his animal eyes will burn a girl
in his throng of naked offers.
He will love her for a while
in impossible angles and lopsided colors,
but me, he will position unnaturally,
breathing paint fumes and Spanish
and sadness against my neck.
He will make another woman hold my mirror,
and cover her in the blue dress he loves
more than her curves, until he slides the
cloth from her shoulders,
surprised to find a woman there, her hips
angled precisely where he left them.