A Woman Painted on a Leaf
–Eavan BolandI found it among curios and silver
in the pureness of wintry light.A woman painted on a leaf.
Fine lines drawn on a veined surface
in a hand-made frame.This is not my face. Neither did I draw it.
A leaf falls in the garden.
The moon cools its aftermath of sap.
The pith of summer dries out in starlight.A woman is inscribed there.
This is not death. It is the terrible
suspension of life.I want a poem
I can grow old in. I want a poem I can die in.I want to take
this dried-out face,
as you take a starling from behind iron,
and return it to its elements of air, of ending-so that Autumn
which was once
the hard look of stars,
the frown on a gardener’s face,
a gradual bronzing of the distance,will be,
from now on,
a crisp tinder underfoot. Cheekbones. Eyes. Will be
a mouth crying out. Let me.Let me die.
a woman inscribed
StandardPhoto by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash