Her face hung white and empty as a spoon.
She had resisted every breeze and flutter
That shuffled dead air through the shutter,
Propped up all morning in a pose.
To flush the color from that stilted rose
Was more than he could do that afternoon.
Perhaps a slip of light would catch her breath;
She stared through every shade that touched her skin,
Like a breathless doll or manikin.
So at noon when a bolt of live light struck
Her cheeks, he would rather stand and look;
The canvas stretched as blank and taut as death,
For one so seldom pictures such a tint,
Certainly nothing anyone could paint.
— From the October 14, 2013 issue of National Review.