Posing Nude

1.

When I was 25,

newly divorced

and needing cash

three friends

all artists

became my helpers.

First I posed just for them  —

to get comfortable,

to find out if I’d like it,

to see if I’d be any good.

They taught me the tricks:

strike a pose suggesting movement

(more interesting)

but distribute your weight

so it’s balanced;

shift your weight

subtly, infinitesimally,

if you go numb;

wear your robe between poses;

rest between poses;

insist on a heater if it’s cold.

Surprisingly, I loved it.

Briefly, was the highest-paid

artist’s model in Melbourne —

until the next husband

wanted exclusive views.

2.

At 45,

plump mother of schoolboys,

I reclaimed an old identity.

An artist friend,

a neighbour,

became my recruiter

for the new life drawing group,

old hands and beginners both,

at the Community Centre.

I gave it a try

to see if I still could

(it’s harder work than you’d think,

stressing the body in various ways:

legs, back, arms;

cold, stiffness, pain)

and to find out if I’d still like it.

Yes to both questions, but

the long, reclining poses

became my forté now,

easier to hold

gentler on the body

and just as interesting

if the sketchers found their own angles.

(My friend liked to draw my face.)

The second husband

was less possessive by now!

Decided to be proud of me instead.

But then we moved away

and that was the end of that.

3.

I’m 75.

You must be joking!

Well yes, it is a joke

but one with serious purpose.

There’s Leigh, Helen,

Delaina and me

four friends

four poets

four collaborators.

Who came up with this idea first?

That we celebrate and promote

the paperback version

of our new book

by posing naked with copies?

I forget, but my guess

is probably either Leigh or Helen.

Leigh kicked it off:

abundant flesh behind

four fanned-out copies;

otherwise dressed

only in a huge smile.

This wasn’t the sort of thing

Delaina had ever done

or contemplated doing,

but she did. Part of the group,

she said, and therefore game.

Side-on, with leather jacket

draped over the far shoulder,

the book in front of the near;

and, I do believe, an eyelash flutter.

Helen’s away,

we’ll have to await

her no doubt brilliant

exposure on her return.

Meanwhile, me.

Yes, I did say 75.

Living alone

without a photographer.

Oh I know,

my massage therapist.

She sees me naked anyway.

But she’s booked solid,

can’t allot extra time.

OK, put the hard word on a friend.

Practise at home first

in front of the full-length mirror.

Hmm, hafta use two books

to sneakily push up

as well as cover the tits.

Decide the angle.

Maybe one book, open?

At friend’s house, she poses me

in front of the drawn blind

(in case of nosey neighbours).

I do the tit-push with two books,

I do the tit-push with one,

I let some flesh peek around the sides,

almost expose a nipple.

We examine the first results.

'I look ... low,' I say.

'I wouldn’t worry,' she tells me.

'Lots of young girls too

look just like that.'

But when I get home,

I realise what’s really wrong:

too much boob, not enough book.

I resort to my last option: selfies

with the Photobooth on my laptop.

I cart it around the house

to find a neutral background

without mess, ornaments,

pictures on walls,

or dangling clown puppets

growing out of my head.

I hold the book high this time —

never mind proving my cleavage —

and try for the right expression.

The wink looks gross,

the smile forced,

the calm face elderly.

I settle on a pursed-lip smirk.

And there I am, depicted

visibly naked again

(without visible rude bits).

Artistry it ain’t,

but this might have been

my hardest

as well as my last,

and — good heavens! —

my most widely-seen

nude pose.

31 Poems in 31 Days (Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: Do something that scares you just a little, and write about it.

dVerse Meeting the Bar: lists. (This one is a list of three episodes, within each of which are lots of little lists.)