Natalie
Natasha
(he calls her this), pose for me
arms half raised.
Natalie
curls her neck back
(like
a Mute Swan he thinks)
throbs
her wings
and
disappears
a
waft of incense in her wake—Patchouli.
he
breathes in
her
absence
yes,
Patchouli.
He
shifts his easel
paces,
stretches a canvas—
tosses
paint tubes, grabs
brushes,
daubs, swirls
almost
tastes Vera’s greens.
Not
for now
the
buttery Montrachets.
Le Pois Penché’s
foie gras.
As
she steals away
just
this
Natalie
Kessab’s élan
her
silk lingerie shop
seized
in his frame.
Jacqueline Bourque grew up along the ocean
shores of New Brunswick. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Fiddlehead, The Antigonish Review, Queen’s
Quarterly and the anthology I found
it at the Movies (Guernica Editions). A member of Ruby Tuesdays writing
group, she is currently writing a suite of ekphrastic poems on FrederickVarley’s paintings.
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