From Mary Spencer to George Stubbs.
Early morning there you are on the stairs
with the dust circulating: the old hack
bearing the hunk of his art on his back
(all ninety-five stone of it). Tell me there’s
no need today to sweep the last one’s hairs
from your studio floor; he’ll watch my back,
this one, hanging like a bat from the rack
overhead. While you draw, I sweep, he stares.
Mother asks why I stay I say maybe
your work ethic, tearing limb from limb to
turn them into knowledge. Or it may be
how you know all my bones when you lay me
on the bed. Or how when you bleed him to
death, you cradle his head like a baby.
© Tess Somervell
- Date June 19, 2015
- Tags Tess Somervell