They appear somewhat helpless,

like animals at the zoo,

looking out at us, at her,

floating in the remnants

of that ultramarine border.

She was unforgiving

in her renditions, the paint seizing

these visual truths—

glances, poses, wrinkles,

pain, pregnancies, and scars,

recording them

with brutal honesty.

Yet, she would shorten legs,

bloat thighs, change fingers,

as if she came upon them

that way,

the poses so natural

despite what she had altered.

Like a slip of the tongue,

they fell into a pose too comfortably,

their faces flashing that one brief glance,

and before they could stop her,

she held the moment like a weapon,

and began.

When she was finished,

they were free to peer

around her easel.

The paint was still wet

as they looked into

those cages they couldn’t see

when she coaxed them in.