Moves to my mind in context of pure sorrow
And as if apprehensive of near death, in black;
Whether erect in chair, indoors or out,
Her dry and corded throat harangued by grief,
Or bent at ragged book in Hebrew prayer;
Whether in sunny parlor or back of drawn blinds,
Or always, at last, in bed, her eyes sinking.
Though time and tongue made disparate any love,
On daguerreotype with classical perspective
I see what of her youth she hoarded for our hate.
I pity her life of deaths, the agony of her own.
But most that history like an obscene queen
Thrust her across the frontiers of all lands,
Taking her exile for granted, cursing her journey,
Confusing the tongues and tasks of her children’s children.
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