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Posted on January 3, 2011 at 4:36 AM

Hold that pose, he said, and she did and she

Was most surprised that he allowed her to

Keep her clothes on and not have to pose in

Some seductive or pornographic way


Or fashion as he often termed it, which

Reminded her of Mother’s words before

She had left home years ago, always keep

Your dignity Wally never let men


Take advantage of you because you’re a

Woman, but she had let that gem of words

Slip from her grasp after a few months in

The big city and besides a girl had


To find shelter and eat and drink and clothe

Herself and posing for an artist was

Better than getting shafted by all and

Sundry for sour sex, although he


Made love to her (she liked to call it that

It had a dignity in the sound) it

Was never at a price, never taken

For granted, not part of the modelling


Deal, just a form of exchange of passion,

A bringing together, a letting go.

Don’t move, Wally, he said, and she kept still,

Thinking of her mother arms up to her


Elbows in dirty water washing clothes,

Washing the dishes, waiting on her bone

Idle husband, having to put up with

His constant want of sex. Hold it just like


That, Wally, now hold it, he said, peering

At her, his hand gripping charcoal, sketching,

Focusing on her, and at that moment

She wanted him even more, wanted him


To hold her, to kiss her, and as she posed

Holding each limb and muscle and nerve in

Place, she saw a saviour in his firm

Features in his artist’s stern godlike face.



Categories: Poetry & Lyric, Terry Collett

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