Friday, August 28, 2009


In honor of the school year's modeling gig starting back up, I give you a poem I wrote last November...



I take off my clothes
and place them neatly,
folding them on the worn
wooden table. I stand,
staring at the reflection
in the merciless mirror.
Greying hair
pulled back in a tight braid.
Thighs a bit wider than I remembered.
Lines etching themselves
around my mouth and eyes.
A belly full of stretch marks,
souvenirs of my double forays
into the whole child birth thing.
Sighing, I wrap myself
in a fuzzy turquoise robe
and pad out into the cold studio...

...where I put some jazz
on the player,
and step up on the podium.
At the ready,
I toss aside the robe
and strike a confident pose:
toes pointed
arms gracefully outstretched
back arched and
head thrown back to greet
the warm spotlighting beams.
All around me, artists
take inspiration...
pencil points
scritch in fine precision,
tracing each glowing hair,
charcoal sticks smudge
great looping arcs
along my swooping curves,
watercolors dance the light
playing across my face,
and pastels blend and smear
leaving soft streaks of color
along my goddess belly.

And I...
I am transformed.
I am art.

-Melissa McCollum

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