A blind salmon swimming
after my older brother,
I pluck a name from the catalogue.
George Grosz. I know enough
to know he’s famous,
but not for what. And from Germany,
soon to repatriate. Gill hooked. First
day of class, stationed by the door,
newsprint pad propped against easel,
I gasp as the male nude strikes
two-minute poses. Legs wide, calf muscles
taut, arms stretched overhead.
Leaning left, fingers spread.
My charcoal breaks.
Five poses, ten, warm-up
for a long study
of his lean buttocks, the black
stool on which he rests one heel.
A group clusters, teacher hidden,
words inaudible, it swarms
as he moves to another
drawing, coming closer until
the small man, arm lifted to correct
foreshortening, thick marks on a timid sketch,
is revealed. He catches my eyes,
stares, unblinking.
It’s hours
before he looks away
and I grab my tablet, leave
the room, never to return.
Published in Press1