Ian Caws
Model
They had all been his mistresses when young,
Now giving him money for food he spent
On whisky. But the paintings he had saved
From his burning studio meant
Nothing to them, every one being
Of an open mouthed woman who had fluffed
Hair and vital buttons missing.
He stacked them in a corner of the room
The women paid the rent for. “I never
Found her divinity,” he used to say,
“Not over fifteen years.” If I
Visited him in the mornings, the same
Conversation. “Her eyes,” he said, “I saw
Nothing there, just a vacuum.”
These were the things that troubled him in old age,
Writing his life in chalk, waiting for rain.
He told her name once but I forget,
Recalling just his obsession,
Painting in her gaze from an old image
In his head. Failing always. “It is late,”
Were the last words he could manage.
Not that the women understood or that
They understood too well. But first to go
When they cleared his room were the canvasses.
From my life, I watched the smoke blow
Through some trees then stood as a soft flame lit
The portraits. Her disappearing faces
Blazed. From her eyes burned living heat.
Page(s) 12
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