By Annette Marie Hyder
Of course I was his model.
I posed for him
leaned on the satin piped cushions
of his imagination
pretended to eat figs and ripe cherries
dressed in nothing but his praise
eloquently expressed with his eyes
and his artist’s fingers.
There was no hesitation
in raising the rim of his inspiration to my lips.
It was filled to the brim with him
and I drank it to its very dregs.
Being his muse has made me
into many little goddesses
and I peer down from stranger’s walls
have shrine-like places in their homes.
I even sit, a pearl-encrusted mermaid,
engraved on a Duchess’s comb.