After an oil portrait by Daniel Sprick
Her skin is the color of rich Midwestern soil.
Her hair, in twists pulled back into a ponytail,
droops at the edge of her long, thin neck.
Her eyes are closed; silver glistens
on her eyelids, a dab of pink
high on her cheekbones,
lips closed. She tilts
her head toward the light,
away from the crowd
in the museum, me.
I stare.
Pinks, grays, blank canvas
politely obscure below her neck,
hint at her thumb
resting on her collarbone.
I raise my hand to touch trust,
let it fall.
Photo by Taylor Deas-Melesh on Unsplash
