after the painting, The Prostitute, by Amedeo Modigliani, 1918
 
The woman did not expect this kind of life,
her hand held over her heart to protect her secret:
If her father had not been killed during the war
she would still be minding their millinery shop in Paris,
her father’s designs becoming more outlandish
as the threat of war became their reality—
large-brimmed black velvet hats with a wreath of convolvulus,
others made of shirred chestnut satin with a fringe of skunk.
His commentary on war went unnoticed by the
wealthy women who frequented their shop,
the wives of generals and officers,
all of them happy to mask their fear with frivolity.
 
The woman looks apologetic as she sits on the bed
after she and Amedeo no doubt made love,
her head tilted as though she is about to make a statement:
Amedeo, you silly man, we are both so weak: Take me,
ravage me, but you will never know who I am.