All’s rooted here in forgiveness—
forgiver and forgiven deep
in the textured present. Pleasure
rises from the dappled surface,
where, in the chaos of patterns,
a woman emerges, then
another, flowered dress
against flowered wall.
Her shadow’s the equal
of her body, a cameo’s
milky profile pinned
to her bosom, while
the other bends to her
task, pale nape of her neck
defined by the blue oval
of washbasin behind her.
The needle’s infinitesimal prick
into silk, her breath just after.
Each mark is a universe
within the larger cloth, traveling
beyond the frame, beyond
the idea of what it might mean
to be in such a place, how
the chair receives
her wide hips when she
is done with her housework, how
the piano waits patiently
for the other’s warm fingers.
These women demand no pity,
no sadness lies underfoot—
not in this simple room, fragrant
with farm bread and jam.
Outside, veils of bittersweet
climb beyond restraint.
But here, in the quotidian—
everything familiar somehow
something has come clear,
which, in the false clarity
of what seems to be,
was forgotten.