Portrait of L.M. Dekorskau, bu Matisse,1047

[Portrait of L.M. Delekorskaya, by Matisse, 1947]


You direct her limbs to gesture,

notation that echoes yourself

or your sister.

Her  hair is bound as her body:

pink satin straps her ankles,

navy nylon cases legs, torso,

black mist trails from her waist.

You try to collect all this

and twine her to Chopin.

You call her to sweep, curve, peak

and from her pert lips

and shot brow she drips

a sullen rebellion.

You call her.

She hears and reverses the backward bowing,

rolls to you and steps out,

hair unbound, mist drifting

from her lips.

You waken and sit upright,

legs extending from a night

of folding. The sheet

drops from your breast

to your waist. You look to her

sprawled limbs, her fallen lashes,

her strewn hair. It is you

who have called her.


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