Mona Lisa's Smile
“Look directly at me,” he said.
Only her eyes moved.
Yet her eyes, as though
with a will of their own,
followed his hands.
His long, thin fingers, gripping
the brush—unless clenched
in his teeth—pushed it
into paint, mixed, dipped,
and lightly dabbed at the canvas.
Eager, but unable to see
her form take shape
just beyond her view,
she gave up her mind
to supposing sensations
she might feel
if he suddenly thrust away brush,
pushed canvas aside, gripped her
with those long fingers,
pressed his lips on her arm
where it lay in her lap
and nibbled slowly up
toward her mouth.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2016
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