by John Grey
As the model posed on an attic divan,
the artist’s brush fought tirelessly
against the two dimensions of the canvas,
to convince the eye
that there were really three.
Then he waged war against her surfaces,
gave what he saw as her true self
more attention in the portrait
than the simple bow of her lips,
curve of her cheek,
the shape and color of her eyes.
The finished work was a collage
of expression and flesh,
chin and sorrow, laughter and nose,
perspective and physiognomy,
mirror both cracked and unbroken.
The model smiled at the end result,
asked, “Is that really me?”
No matter, she thought.
A job is a job.
She once stacked shelves
for minimum wage
and that wasn’t her either.