Portrait of Anna Zborowska, 1917
You are up to your elbows in
yourself, declining. A lean
winter, hands chafed with cold.
First flush, your heat, gloved
in passion, mottled and holding.
Or beholden. One man’s giving –
shuffled between them, painter
and patron. Red/black. Hint
of a smile, quirked lip: what’s
you is subtle, hidden. That patch
of shadow at your throat, his blacks
licking at your skin. Eyes fixed
on nothing, edging towards Freud:
the divan a secret for you to hold.
À face caché de la lune
“…This love is
not some experimental station
we use only to look into ourselves.” Andy Brown
The moon is in her hurry. Not fourteen days
to go, and you’re worried she has starved herself to a sliver
of anticipation.
Nights draw in, don’t yet taste of snow. It’s OK,
I say, she’ll be back. With my pumpkin face. Light
at the eyes.
Sophie Mayer
