I ache to press my fingers into her flesh,
insert them under her skin and grab
fistfuls of the yellow fat cells pulsating beneath.
My nerve-endings tingle with anticipation –
I imagine blood, sinews and cartilage slithering over my hands.
Some call her voluptuous
She has been labelled curvaceous in her time –
her complexion has been admired,
compliments have been made about her chestnut hair
and how it gleams like conkers in the autumn sun.
Most people skirt around that single-syllabled utterance – fat.
It is as if the very word itself is a crime,
as if it should be expunged from the dictionary.
I do not criticise,
do not imagine barbs where none exist.
No, I rejoice in her size,
after all, I am an artist,
an admirer of the human form in all its variations.
My only sorrow is, that in common with them all,
she cannot be moulded.
She is not clay.
I am saddened that she too, will not outlive my attentions.
Perhaps, in the future, there will be such a survivor.
All I want is for each of them to be a little bit better than they already are.
Is that too much too ask?
Tonight on dVerse Poetics, Lillian is inviting us to write with a sculpture, or sculptor in mind. Have a conversation with your sculpture, give us your back story, turn and turn again, tell the story from whatever angle you choose, be the sculpture coming to life or the model being used as inspiration. What a wonderful idea, Lillian!
Hmm… my sculptor is a little (a lot!) sinister. I don’t know where he came from, all I know is, I wouldn’t want to be one of his models!
I hope you enjoy (if you can bear it!). I’m sure other entries will be much more light-hearted than mine, so please, do head on over to the dVerse pub, ask the friendly barkeep to pour you a cold one, and get reading (and why not take part?)!
