An Old Photograph
I rummage through a box
of old photographs. A lady’s image
holds my eye: I hold her up to
light filtering through a dingy window.
The edges are frayed, a scratch
cuts across her face, a scar
now permanent yet transient,
does not disturb the hardness
of her stare. Her head, slightly
turned towards me, sits on her
high-collared neck, her white blouse
set off by an oval brooch.
Her gaze is fixed on some object
outside the confined space that
encloses her and the world
she once knew.
Her hair, set in careful twists,
encircles her head like a turban.
The high forehead and pronounced
cheekbones suggest she might
have been a woman of high
breeding, wealth and status.
The lace ruffles that decorate her blouse
conceal an ample bosom.
Her lips are full, her eyes bright.
Her face still sustains the summer
of her age, though soft shadows
betray autumn not far off.
In this graveyard of old
photographs she has outlived
her flesh and lost her name
to the negligence of time.
Her second death is already
at work, and with added time
she will fade away – for even
images like flesh are mortal.
Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2023
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