NORWEGIAN WOOD--- close but no cigar

Written by: Cyndi MacMillan


The assignment seemed simple, 
a charcoal nude,
posing the question 
should have been the hardest part.

Bjønne deepened his dimples,
said, I’m no prude, kjære,
then eyes like a fiord 
preened with a gaze, 
direct but not rude,
tender, all knowing, aware,
like a god, so like a god.

He arrived late, but I was not ready
for all that revealed lankiness, 
the ease in which he disrobed,
how he filled my tight space
with a disconcerting cockiness,

as though clothing was optional,   
as though he belonged
in my small lair.

How very long 
were his softly furred limbs,
paper barely caged my strokes,
hands enraptured by toned muscle,
wondering if I was exposing
my shady thoughts while I was shading,
evading while invading, again and again,
a clandestine struggle to capture him.

I recall that his English was poor 
But, oh, his bones were so very good.

For an hour he reclined
overtly male, but slightly feline, 
on a cheap bent back chair 
gone now, many years.

Yes, I still remember that Norwegian wood
and refuse to wonder whether I should. 





*** OOPS! Lol. Wrote this for a contest and now I see that it had to be in quatrains. Oh, well. I had fun. Thanks for the inspiration, Heather!