Your eyes are narrowed to keep out the intrusive sun
your mouth a line closed against God, life, a stone
caught in your sensible black shoe
you married a widower twice your age, two children
to head the twelve you had, and two who lie in beds
of quiet inside the houses of the dead
behind the line of your mouth red slippers
dance under embroidered skirts, purple satin shawls
tease violins and somewhere a silver flute signals
platters of pomegranates, pears, their pale juices
lush on another’s lips — blue birds play with bees
leopards offer sweetmeats, pour wine in glasses
sunflowers turn their heads and bow as you stride
into high floating air — you climb that steep slope
stand arm raised: but here in the black wooden frame
you pose — behind you a trellis fence, beyond that the tree
under which you were born and where that line began
to carve itself into the newborn pink of your mouth.
Renée
