Poetry

Between Lines and Mona

I.
Leo drew Mona
daily,
studying the

curve
of her neck, the delicate

swoop

of her collarbone

And how her head
seemed to weigh down
her body,
spine folded and
creased

like the drawings he
kept of her

in the corner by the dusty easel
he used long ago.

II.
Mona reaches to grab her bare
right shoulder
with a
bare left hand.

Posture is puckered,
but gentle.

She knows her
muse
               is only but an
ideal to him.

She is alone.

III.
Leo buttons his
smock
               and his lips

then his arm moves

around the
               toned paper the color of autumn,
only leaving
contours behind,
those that are thin
               and feeble.

His eyes are on her
               form, hardly straying.

IV. She slips into her skirt—
                                   Bohemian—

and buttons her
               sweater—wool.

Before closing the

door
behind her, she tucks
her bag into the crook
of her arm,

and she glances back,

to the pile of her
thoughts, her                essence that is collecting dust

by the easel Leo once used

before his own muse
evaporated
before and behind her eyes.