Reclining Nude

after Modigliani, via greenmountaineer

He said to turn my back
to him. I was relieved,
because I was embarrassed
to have taken off my clothes
before a man I did not love.

I grew bored while he painted.
He was angry if I moved
even a little bit, my legs
cramping, but said,
Your form is beautiful,
if you would only remain still!

Sometimes, I liked to shift my hips
to irritate him.

While he painted my lower body,
I could read or count
my days' five francs
and think how Étienne
would be pleased
that we could then go
to the cinéma,

knowing he would quiz me
about what the painter had done—
He never touched me, I swore,
even with his softest brush.

But the canvas, when I saw it,
made me a liar, for then I knew
how much he had possessed me,
and how much I had given him,

even while lying calmed as a lemon or a corpse
on his velvet red blanket.