Elle sits in mid act <br />of dressing. The floor <br />is hard on buttocks, <br />scrawny arse, he had <br />said some short while <br /> <br />ago. Sensations still <br />there, stirred up, half <br />fulfilled, wanting more <br />on her part. But he's <br />gone off to smoke or <br /> <br />bath or set paint to his <br />canvas or paper. She <br />knows he likes his red <br />heads, the real thing, <br />not a dyed for the show <br /> <br />of it type. Pubic gives <br />the game away, he'd say, <br />laughing, pointing. He's a <br />weird type even if he <br />sets well paint to art. <br /> <br />To complete the act of <br />dressing, forget the sexual <br />aspect, dress and be off. <br />Mother used to say, save <br />your virginity like a precious <br /> <br />pearl, don't throw before <br />swine and give away after <br />a good meal and too much <br />wine. Mother, Elle thinks, <br />knew little of sex except <br /> <br />the one act from which I <br />came, then closed up shop <br />and set her legs to be <br />crossed when men were on <br />the scene. She puts on her slip <br /> <br />and necklace, the one he gave <br />her, the one with red stones. <br />He has painted her a number <br />of times, brushed her onto <br />canvas, eased her down with <br /> <br />artistic determination. Sold <br />to others to peer at, to lust <br />after, to have framed, placed <br />on some cold wall. She sits <br />half-dressed, musing, slow <br /> <br />fingering the red stones, like <br />drops of blood. He'll not want <br />her that time of month, not <br />with her pains and messy flood.<br /><br />Terry Collett<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/elle-sits-in-mid-act/
