She seemed distracted by the artist's brush.
Perhaps the fire behind her back, behind
the house and toolshed, made her want to rush
for church where smoke was heavy on her mind.
She might as well have been a nude laid back
against a sofa, bed, or sprawling rug.
He couldn't know it, but she had a knack
for posing, nipples swollen, Venus snug.
The pitchfork held the man erect and staid.
It gripped his knuckles hard, too fine a tool
for letting loose and letting go, afraid
to use it— and he didn't, as a rule.
There was no love lost here, nor had there been.
He left a steeple though, and hope therein.
Charles (Charlie) Southerland: "I live in Arkansas on my farm where I keep watch over lots of critters and write poetry. I'm published in a few good journals like: Measure, The Road Not Taken, First Things, Blue Unicorn, The Amsterdam Quarterly, The Lyric, and others. I was nominated for a Pushcart Prize a few years ago, and I was a finalist for a recent Nemerov Award. I am primarily a Formalist."
The Ekphrastic Review
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