The Painter's Wife

She modelled for him once
a long time ago
in some far away land but now –

He covers the canvas with delicate and strident
atmosphere
While the atmosphere of her lurks downstairs
with the laundry or the cooking
(smells, always the smells, seeping up the stairwell)

He has come to associate these things with her:
wet washing boiled vegetables
they permeate his linseed and dull the sharpness
of his brushstroke, blot the fantastic firmament
and white wings her eyes fail to notice
when she trudges up the stair to ask him
what he wants for dinner.

She danced under that firmament once
the reflection of the rainbow catching in her iris
as she laid herself bare
on the other side of the canvas
(always the other side of the canvas, he remembers bitterly)

But her eyes are grey her body fallen
taking mind with it - her company turgid,
empty-headed.
A muse once, amusing enough - but not an artisan
in the end, to grow old with
She's good at what she does, he can't deny that.

But laundry and cooking
are all she ever does for him now.