[Her name here]Posted: April 23, 2014
He used to rest his head against her ample bosom
like a calf after a good milking.
She had a saintly beauty hard to imagine
but especially difficult to recreate
that he swore even Lucian Freud would’ve found the task of portraying her naked flesh
on canvas a task of high-stakes.
Her bronze skin made him embrace all that it coated –
her tissue, her blood, her bones, even her underpinnings.
Her eyes like distant stars twinkled.
Her hair naturally flowed down the back of her neck like feathers
and her shoulders carried the ends like a child on its father’s….
Her legs were perfect poles –
they walked into, then across and right past his world –
top, sides and finally down.
© Heath Muchena, 2014