by Eva Maria Saaverda

selected by Marilyn Hacker

After "The Japanese Footbridge at Giverny,"
ca. 1922, I

Think of me as I was before,

blurred white space. How it bothered

you to look at me. Reach out in search

of a brush, though you lose your vision

as a woman loses change—through a small rip,

a surprise collection hidden within the lining of a purse.

Layer the paint, green on top of green, brown

on brown. It's like serving a loved one food,

always adding more, though they ask you not to.

Show me that this has nothing to do with sight,

that memory is enough for us.


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