Noon Study of Black Velvet
after Wyeth
Night is a ship he set out on. He tips
his dry brush against his tongue & pauses
over her fingers—eclipsed lily petals
that quake against rib & breast.
As if the painter’s eye
flares with the edgework of sun
she lies perfect & palest pink. Her face lolls
in the wave of a receding shore, placid now.
She, as the body, turns
toward a swelling drift as his black bristle
curls over her throat—a slim slipknot
that severs all breath.
—maureen alsop