A Nude Study and Me

How is it that, in 1914, Henri Gaudier-Brzeska drew a nude of me,

1914 – when I wasn’t even a thought, not a little bean or nucleus,

no sperm swimming to egg and egg; fallopian tube in utero but no me

or my parents, or even theirs – yet there I am in the glass in the pencil

barely there (it must have been a hard pencil), my chin, odd jaw, my nipples – recognisable

sturdy shoulders, masculine: I’d look from the shower to mirror

age seventeen and misty and think ‘what masculine shoulders’, now they’re shared

with Nude Study and I’ve got a new sister. I am you, Nude, as you are me,

and my lovers’ mouths have touched your pencil lips too, fluffy tongued, left a scuff

on the paper; my renaissance in the curve of your thigh, the flick

of your half-drawn hand, and there’s a fray in your lower left corner, hidden by the frame

and, Nude, I am frayed there too, watching your waist and mine as a mirror

my eyes looking back inside of your eyes, grayscale;

greened. 

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