Ah, metaphors...

Live Model by Marie Ponsot Who wouldn't rather paint than pose— Modeling, you're an itch the artist Doesn't want to scratch, at least Not directly, and not yet. You think, "At last, a man who knows How bodies are metaphors!" (You're wrong.) First time I posed for him he made A gilded throne to sit me on Crowned open-armed in a blue halfgown. I sat his way, which was not one of mine But stiff & breakable as glass, Palestill, as if With a rosetree up my spine. We had to be speechless too, Gut tight in a sacring thermal Hush of love & art; Even songs & poems Were too mundane for me to quote To ease our grand feelings So I sat mute, as if With a rosetree down my throat. Now I breathe deep, I sit slack, I've thrown the glass out, spit, Evacuated bushels of roses. I’ve got my old quick walk & my big dirty voice back. Why do I still sometimes sit On what is unmistakably like a throne? Why not. Bodies are metaphors And this one's my own.