Joshua Reynolds, My Mother and I

Planted in a tiny corner of my many-cornered heart resides
my psyche’s take on what a rough draft of a Reynolds
double portrait of a lady and her daughter might look like:

elegantly spiked with long-necked grace; perhaps the last
vestigial siftings I inherited of dreams my mother had: of what
I’m secretly quite certain would have made her very glad:

an intimate affection for a daughter. My mother never
had one, nor a mother she remembered: matriarchy must
have seemed a strange unfathomable pearl. When I was

a little boy, I watched her watching with a covered private
yearning women talking to their little girls. Perhaps I learned
that joy cannot be willed; some absences cannot be filled.

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(above is a revamped condensed version of original. here's the original:)

Joshua Reynolds, My Mother and I

Planted in the shadows of a tiny corner of my
many-cornered heart resides, propped up like art
in some haphazard crayon-colored state, my psyche’s
take on what a rough draft of a Reynolds double portrait
of a lady and her daughter might look like: elegantly
spiked with long-necked grace – bespeaking the alleged

Enlightenment of England when she'd ruled most of this
blessèd goddamned place: which somehow constitutes
the last vestigial siftings I inherited of dreams
my mother had: no, not of painting nor of Reynolds
nor of aristocracy – but what I'm secretly quite certain
would have made her very glad: an intimate affection

for a daughter. My mother never had one, nor a mother
she remembered: matriarchy must have seemed
an unattainable unfathomable pearl. I watched
her watching, with a covered private yearning, women
talking to their little girls, when I was a little boy. I knew
I couldn't fill some absence that would bring her joy.


.