Swan She'd always wanted the graceful body  of a ballerina, arms outstretched and fluttering, with arched neck and doe eyes weeping en pointe for her dying swan prince. She imagined roses thrown at her feet, bravos and accolades hurled before gracefully  exiting the stage. And so he painted her that way, this tall wide-hipped woman with succulent lips, full swaying breasts meant to be caressed and set free, not corsetted into a flat-topped ballet gown; a woman with black wavy hair, too wild and unruly to be held ransom  by an uptight ballerina's bun. She danced in her garden with the hens and one cow, grew her own roses,  kissed her husband often. On nights when the moon was full enough to see clearly, her husband led her out to where the wildflowers grew, slowly undressed her, then slid inside  among a moving pallet of colors  until she gasped with delight. The painting pirouetted through many galleries, drew the accolades she'd always craved. When admirers asked about the model, though, the artist always offered a mysterious smile. 'She's a swan,' he said. 'A beautiful wildflower found spreading its petals when the light  of the moon is just right'. Pris Campbell ©2007 Art: Model by Modigliani Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage