Still Life

Brad Bostian

Arrogant, sitting on her hands,
She said from across the vacant room
Just paint me and go.
In the gyrations of the air,
Like a body dancing, like wind
Funneling up a chimney,
She was a witch, and all while sitting
In the vague light, by the open window,
Her fingers growing longer.

And yet without moving she plunged
Into the light I painted her by
Like a moth, not having noticed
How poor and tired the light, or
That when the light was gone,
She would fold in upon herself
And yawn. Which she did,
Fighting her body like the skeleton
Trying to get out, while the time
Passed slower for her than for me
And her true eyes were hidden
From me, like rings in black boxes.


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