Like the print of a key in wax, the soul
has a hollow shaped like faith. I reach
in pain and find nothing but ache and absence,
and that suggestive shape. It is a grief,
perhaps, but not for someone known –
not the small gestures that haunt, the particular
head tilt still glimpsed in crowds. But
in a formal portrait of my grandmother’s family,
a spider hand on the back records the names
of draping skirts and pale lace children, notes too
that there were three infants who did not survive,
all named Helen.
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A revision of this one.
