A Beckoning Flex

He said Let me step into the light.
I replied Ghosts are best seen in the dark.
He smiled, but I couldn’t surmise if he was knowing or telling.

I had approached him to pose on a friend’s recommendation. I was told he accepted without prior knowledge of my work. The sharing of social media information occupied several days. Then we met beforehand for coffee, briefly exchanging additional everyday details, as one might on a first date or a networking happy hour. I said My studio is across the street. My eyes likely said other words than my mouth.

He had undressed as if peeling off a former self.
We had such enjoyable ease.
He seemed to float, despite his broad feet on the bare floor.
Perhaps we were a dream being remembered days later.

I motioned him nearer, and his hips twisted with a beckoning flex that stoked an ache in the anterior chambers of my gut. His thigh bloomed with the work of maintaining his pose. His cheekbone cut an outline through the warm air, like a pane framing a gateway to the other dimension from which he came, fully formed as a haunting from which I could not turn away.

He affixed his stanced and rolled his shoulder.
His pectoralis major made articulate waves.
He glowed as he straightened up and stilled.
How’s this? he asked.

I smiled tellingly. He nodded knowingly. Our work continued.

Original Content Required: A Beckoning Flex 

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Comment Poem #177, inspired by this painting of Kim David Smith by John MacConnell.