by Rebecca Thill

You say, Baby, if I was a painter…

Yet, I know you only sketch in pencil.

Oils and ink are too messy for your careless hands.


Do you think I’m just a lightly drawn line

— lead’s grey disguise? Once you said

I’m like a cantaloupe. How I seem hard at first

but soft inside—too soft.


Even though you speak with authority

on melons and canvas,

the bullshit is overwhelming.

Your comparison is ridiculous

and maybe I am, too, for listening,


I’m not your baby

and you’re not a painter.

Rebecca Thill recently received her M.F.A. in creative writing and poetry from Emerson College—in fact, so recently that she has yet to buy a frame for her diploma. Since graduating, Rebecca has relocated from Boston to Arizona, but still remains an active reader at Ploughshares. She spends her time drinking an extraordinary amount of coffee and trying to write a poem about bears that isn’t silly.