His ceiling is pink and I can’t
recall if I’ve ever seen
a painted ceiling in a home
that wasn’t a palace or castle—
the crown molding too baroque
to flower screen-lit walls.
Not kid pink, royal pink—
he calls it matronly, I call it
self-absorbed. Upscale
lingerie pink, sandstone
pink, sun in the mouth
pink, tongue pink,
nipple-pink pink, my pink,
I lean over him and make it
backdrop pink—no world outside
this bedroom and no room
in the frame for anyone
but me: reclining nude,
portrait of a lady, Venus
poising in her shell, drifting ashore
on a man’s breath. Piano seeps
through the walls, gilds everything
in sentiment. I hold it, let
his gaze trace fine sketches.
Like everything else posing
is an art and I do it
exceptionally well, I place
one hand on my stomach
and he paints the inside, pink
without the light.

Sarah Corney is an American poet living and working in France. She received her B.A. from the University of Virginia, where she was a member of the Area Program in Poetry Writing. She recently completed her M.F.A. in Creative Writing at Boston University. Her poetry has been published in Pigeon Pages, whurk magazine, and the Virginia Literary Review.