Dali's Wife

I sit and watch him melt another clock.
A wedding gift from my aunt,
Now a pool of lava on the kitchen table.
We’ve made a deal.
I’m not posing, sitting, standing for him again
Unless he cuts that thing off of his face.
It’s a leech upon your upper lip, I say.
Sucking all the life out of you and
Splashing it onto the canvas.

He caught me the other day,
Doing for myself what he won’t do.
One twiddle of that wretched moustache
And off he goes to paint.
Unveiling it, he smiles,
I got the inspiration from you, my muse.
What did you call it Great for?
It doesn’t even look like me.

He goes to stab me with a paintbrush.
Tú eres una perra!I knock over his easel, cackling.
The colours run,
Smeared,
Ruined.
Is this what they call modern art, darling?

Every morning upon awakening,
I experience a supreme distaste:
That of being your wife.