Michael Cadnum
An ancient story tells how the first-ever portrait was made by a woman
drawing around the shadow of her lover’s profile.
R. B. Kitaj
In secret, behind the orchard,
and you with so little time
you cannot lie down
among the trees.
Hot – the dry river
shivers with mirage
and the donkeys
grazing before the hills
vanish in the rising
breath of the grass.
Day stone, noon
the dust that was stone.
In haste on your way
to your father’s chambers,
with your new signet ring, son
of a vineyard-owning home,
you turn again, again
on leaving me, soon to be
married soon to ride
to the distant capitol.
Touching me,
even now, your voice
cradling my name
while I stroke
your shadows
trace and stay long,
long after with
the faithful earth.
Tennessee Barn
Freda Hirsch