I dab her pigment with a cotton swab,
soaked in alcohol.
Check for craquelure --
It seems she is the real thing:
a grandmother
who, I can hold in memories eye
and study.
I must look at sketches
made before my form was conceived.
I must recall a photogravure image,
We shall call it “Woman with Bun,”
We shall call it “Woman with Bun,”
hair balanced softly above
a face reminiscent of my mother’s.
Who were you Agnes?
I hear there were horses.
I hear there were men
who shared your brief life.
What was it of Milton
that made you chose him
to father your daughter and son?
But then,
there was no choice for you.
You were of a different age.
What came to focus
briefly before your death?
What were your hopes
and dreams?
Did you worry on your deathbed
of a daughter and a son
left alone?
Did you consider the day
when I might follow you
in life?
You were of a different age.
Is it purely fancy to think we
would have had much in common?
