Madame X’s
          décolletage
                    stands bright

against her black dress,
          shining and cinched
                    at the waist,

and my shirt, cotton
          and crew-necked.
                    She balances

against the table,
          her hand a vise
                    around the edge.

I imagine her hidden
          fingers clawing
                    the underside,

and her leaning wrist snapping.
          The elbow’s turned out,
                    straining en pointe.

Her head twists
          away from me. Nape-curls
                    bezel her neck.

I stare, willing her
          to snap, or flinch,
                    or crick to distract me

from her exposure,
          her shock of skin
                    and its smoothness.

It arouses me. Her skin,
          so unlike mine
                    with its scar

as eye-catching
          as a diadem
                    on my shoulder.

I pose like her,
          shoulder tight,
                    the scar rising

like a pearl I scored
          into the nacre
                    of my own skin.

Worse still, it’s set
          among the seed pearls
                    of scabs and pocks

and scoured pores
          scattered like the syllables
                    of dermatillomania.

What shame I want
          X to have:
                    Sargent forced

to shade her bottle
          into that fan,
                    curtained rotten teeth

behind lips, or stare
          her bloodshot eyes
                    away on the backdrop.