poems by owen lucas

She lounges in huge brown corded
armchair, blanket with woven
floral fresco draped over the back
cushion, great padded arms too
far apart for one sitter, it's a
short chaise longue. She's half
curled up, knees drawn in to make
perpendicular with her rise and falling
belly. Ribs, spare, breastbone and
collar make neat cage that seems
to urge forward from the deep
chair every inward breath. Her
elbows oppose like an Egyptian or
a strange demoisselle, framing
the contact lines and soft creases
of her breasts. Over the scaffold
runs the light membrane of fabric
of her top in yellow and tiny dots,
still bleached like her lightening
hair. Her shoulders are embarrassed
red, caught red, fair and baked
by the slow afternoon dropping rays.
Her thick hair bunches against
the armchair cover, catches in her
thin black eyebrows, shadows those
dark Italian lids. Her lips and nose
tip are pert and flushed, oval
of white teeth in pink buds, below
her shiny suntanned jut. Her
white legs are pale warm branches
grown parallel, shins inbending
infintessimally like first shoots
straining. Her shadow-cast feet
are two veined vivid fruit
hanging in the heat of the lamp,
a bunch of fives catches enough
of the glow to make her toes
into some ripe painted mural, each
one bent and tucked just as her
hands, arms, belly button. Her
butt peeks out of her short
blue shorts, the pocket is dark
with the same shade that's over
her hand, and is unbuttoned.
Her cheek, the colour of an old
playing card, the softest peach,
runs up to her modest dipped
eyelashes; two still recesses
holding bulbs that dry the contact
lenses with rapid eye movement
as she wheezes like a tiny
cat, dozing softly early evening.