I sat a foot away and sketched her. I didn’t use pencils.
I drew her with words. I started with her cheekbones.
They were raised like hands eager to explain
what gradation does. Her mouth provided the answers
and moved like sketchbook pages in the wind.
I moved on to her eyes. They were like the Van Gogh palette
from which “Starry Night” was born.
The charcoal above them was like a ******
of crows at dusk. If she saw imperfection,
she could cover it up. She was the painter,
but also the canvas.