Her

I think of her:

the woman,

young in 1913

who almost smirked 

in - what was it - her

high school graduation photo?

Forgotten, but not gone. 

Here on my bookcase now,

kept in a frame too small

and cheap for her.

Purchased for 4.95 to become 

an imaginary, antique friend for me.

A bell had tinkled brightly as the old door

closed behind us or maybe it was me 

cheerfully telling myself that I’d rescued her.

I suppose it never crossed her mind

to sign the back of every print 

near the date stamp

in case one of them would be dislocated 

in a hundred years. 

That’s behind us now.

She smiles.

And I think of her: 

the woman carrying water, 

who is really imaginary,

(I know, because I imagined her

a prototype 

from a colorful, collective story

of those who walk barefoot

on the back paths

of another continent

any dry, dry place,

anonymously photographed

for charity mailings.)

Yet, in a real somewhere, 

no doubt she wraps her body 

in vibrant fabric lengths

and shifts a heavy-laden pot to her head

(or, maybe, in reality, she hauls plastic jugs.)

She moves as if pain and practicality

were beauty products.

Meanwhile, I pull up the hood of my gray,

down-filled jacket against the elements

and walk out into the damp, cold north

of this continent, this time.

And I form a sharp-edged prayer

from my mesh of objections.

I am not that woman.

Not the woman whose superpower

is an expression that dissolves time.

Not the woman gracefully balancing

a heavy life without spilling.

Not her...

To which God quietly replies (again): XX