This is a wonderful poem, narrative, visual, controlled. I think it is
perhaps the best work of yours I have seen online. Congratulations.
<< Life Model
Here, in Tate Modern, most look quickly and move on
with no idea of how the slightest movement
changes everything, how light shifts, or the scent
of paraffin and nicotine on her skin.
Step back thirty years - she's swallowing
amphetamines to keep so still that she'll slip
from her body and look down to watch him
watching her, mixing his oils through marriage,
separation, divorce - the same canvas,
the same godawful silence. And for what?
A Times obituary? Now, she's in that space again:
his chair, those walls, the line of his plumb.
Everything's familiar: she's a poor schmuck
of a student, easy to impress, paid peanuts.
Obsessed with what he sees, he's on the up:
unknown, known, famous. A long time dead.
christina fletcher
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