You were standing up there

a statue of warm flesh

for us to cast our eyes upon,

study and trace onto our paper your form.

I could not help

but stare into your eyes

focused on the light above my head,

so you would not move an inch,

mess up our portraits.

The professor told us to start at the bottom,

where most of the weight is being pressed,

and work our way up.

I wonder as I study that knob at your ankle

if you feel the points of our pencils,

the rubbed off edges of our charcoal,

on your skin.

 

 

 

Do you feel it?

I’m at your ankle, you calf,

moving up your thigh,

curving around your side,

your rib cage,

the crook of your arm,

your elbow, your armpit,

the nap of your neck; that little dip

where fingers could caress

or lips could kiss.

Still you stand, a living statue

for the whole room to study.

They pour over

your every nook and cranny

so they can commit to paper

for a grade;

an A for F

depending on how they interpret that little pink scar on your left shoulder

LRH 1997