Sitting For Caravaggio
Ground floor of the Palazzo Madama –
I walk into the blasphemous dark,
black as a Vatican bible. The air hangs
heavy with myrrh, hint of dead flesh.
He wants an assistente – a boy to prime
canvas, grind his earths and ochres.
The pay – two soldi less than my age,
dieci per una seduta. Then the Master
appears, brighter than The Crucifixion,
blinding rays of mezzogiorno sunlight
stabbing a straw-covered floor. He thrusts
towards me a set of predator’s feathers,
angels’ wings cadged off Gentileschi.
My heart flutters; just like the others
his eyes strip me before I can undress.
Shucked and pinioned, I edge onto a set
cluttered with props: crumpled bed-sheets,
bawdy musical scores, violin, plated armour,
a dead flower. I don’t feel sweet like Cupid.
Legs wide, an angel’s wing brushes my thigh –
I’m his Love Conquers All, unadorned.
My right arm aches from clutching arrows
without a quiver. I grin. The Master spits
grape pips as he paints. Although we never
touch, I feel his fingers flicker over me.
He spits another pip, his temper sweeter
than the flesh of a maturated fig; Bellissimo
Cecco, next time I make you a saint.