in the far north of the meadow,
I let him sketch me.
And, for a cluster of spare, sweet hours,
I felt seen.
as he adapted my pose
to each shift of the sun.
I think he spoke of sapling shadows
or, perhaps, of the tawny afternoon light;
honestly, I heard nothing
but my own shallow breath
and the zigzig scratch and scritch
of his pencils -
here, ivy green,
there, scarlet bergamot -
against the snowberry white sheet
of paper across his knees.
That is, until he whispered,
"You have the most beautiful indigo eyes."
I kissed him, then.
I kept the sketch tucked tight
inside my pillow.
I unfolded it and folded it again
until the paper was worn soft as sleep.
But, vanity is a rose with thorns.
One day, a stout-stemmed elder
appeared at our screen door.
Twisted between her fat, unforgiving fingers,
was my precious sketch.
I was found out.
Now, I would repent,
or I would leave.
Naturally, I left.
To be sure, vanity is a sin.
As is lust, I suppose.
But, to deny my God-given indigo eyes?
That would be blasphemy.
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