Elle sits in mid act
of dressing. The floor
is ******* buttocks,
scrawny ****, he had
said some short while

ago. Sensations still
there, stirred up, half
fulfilled, wanting more
on her part. But he’s
gone off to smoke or

bath or set paint to his
canvas or paper. She
knows he likes his red
heads, the real thing,
not a dyed for the show

of it type. ***** gives
the game away, he’d say,
laughing, pointing. He’s a
weird type even if he
sets well paint to art.

To complete the act of
dressing, forget the ******
aspect, dress and be off.
Mother used to say, save
your virginity like a precious

pearl, don’t throw before
swine and give away after
a good meal and too much
wine. Mother, Elle thinks,
knew little of *** except

the one act from which I
came, then closed up shop
and set her legs to be
crossed when men were on
the scene. She puts on her slip

and necklace, the one he gave
her, the one with red stones.
He has painted her a number
of times, brushed her onto
canvas, eased her down with

artistic determination. Sold
to others to peer at, to lust
after, to have framed, placed
on some cold wall. She sits
half-dressed, musing, slow

******* the red stones, like
drops of blood. He’ll not want
her that time of month, not
with her pains and messy flood.