after the painting, The Hotel Bedroom, by Lucien Freud, 1954 
 
The voices in Caroline’s head are
maddening—the drone of I Told You So’s
from her mother and close friends—
even though she has always been right
about everything else in her life:
the schools she attended,
friends she chose, the characters
she developed in her novels.
And Lucien’s been jealous of her,
her certainty about everything
always overwhelming his self-doubt—
so debilitating he needs to paint
day and night in order to breathe.
 
He looks at us from across the room,
his body dark, absorbed in his mood.
He wants our sympathy—
for the ambivalence he feels towards
his wife and, possibly, all women
even though he needs them
almost as much as he needs to paint.
He turns towards his palette, decides
to brighten the duvet cover, sheets,
pillow cases, even the complexion
of Caroline’s face and hands.
The light in the room is demanding
and he decides, reluctantly, to give in.