I don’t know what to do with his body.
It looks smooth—& heavy too—
from the way the sofa’s mahogany claws
sink into the sand. Every other wave
is brown, the ones in-between a light liquor
bottle green, & the strip of wet sand
the froth laps, then leaves, is glass—
brown & shouldn’t act like mud
but does. When a seagull struts by
I see the others flick their brushes
in irritation over that spot as if to
drive it away— & me, I’m avoiding
the subject, still fretting over how to paint
the word ‘sometimes’ because the pebbles
only show when the water’s had a chance
to settle. I can tell he’s secretly moving
his toes along the grain of the sofa
& back, so the hairs lie smooth, then
bristle as one wave crests & another
crashes. The women next to me sighs.
Her clouds look like dark whales floating
in the sky, her brush hovers over
them & then dips down to make
an awkward dab at the spot between
the model’s thighs. It is starting
to drizzle now & each wave has a pocked
& peaked landscape of its own & people
are folding their easels & shielding
their paintings with their bodies as they run
to the striped cabanas. Perhaps he will whisk
out a cloak & wade slowly into the water,
silk billowing about his fine white ankles.
Perhaps he has to help carry the sofa. I turn
and trudge after the others, picking a path
through the driftwood littered like collarbones
on the beach. I want a way to take it all
with me-the sag of the sofa beneath him &
the curve of the ocean which is what I think
the iris must look like from inside the eye.
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