Retrospective
We've been through this before,
the closed door, the suggestion
of oncoming curves, the sudden
shifts from little girl to uncontrolled
force and hardened will, the kind
of shores that otherwise careful
sailors find themselves dashed upon.
And we know what this means,
that we are becoming less interesting
while her own reflection is drawn
into focus like an artist's study,
something to be perfected, edited
and considered critically from new
angles and through unfamiliar filters.
She is modeling herself like clay,
bending and twisting, reshaping,
or painting a self-portrait, battling
a difficult canvas with never any
of the right colors or brushes, painting
over, erasing, raging for hours
upon hours, alone in her studio.
And we will wait for the invitation
to gather like patrons to a gallery
where we will admire her best
and finished work, cited (we hope)
as influences and source material.
We'll look for evidence of ourselves
in the brush strokes and title cards.
We're not there yet, and we've been
through this before, this letting go,
and in these next days we might
be forgiven if we give in to our urge
to unbend what she has bent, to mix her
colors and to hold her hand, the one
we both know is holding the brush.
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