White sheets and a bachelor apartment.
He called it a studio. It was:
a single Chinese lantern, a mattress
on the floor. A blond desk spread
with glossy photographs and negatives,
proof sheets, still wet-looking.

I sat on his bed and opened an art book,
his cue to sit by me.
He was older and not handsome,
but intriguing and an artist–
almost as good.

When we went out to see a movie
he took pictures of my knees
against the hood of his car in my tall black boots.
He liked the way they looked knobby
he said, adding quickly when I looked hurt:
They’re proper girl knees.

I have one Polaroid and it’s enough.
I’m standing against the wall, nude
from the waist up, looking down,
my breasts, braver than I,
doing most of the talking.