Ferrotype

She tilts her face toward the light,
stretches her neck and lifts her chin
well above the curved bow
of the neckline of her dress.
The soft swirls of the musorr
that covers her head
frames
a high forehead,
exults the arch of her brow.

Does she rest?
Is that why her eyes are veiled?
To keep out lights too fierce, too bright?
Or is she remembering
those shadows who walked before her?

She rises reborn from a bath
of silver nitrate—
tints of sepia and gray,
the smooth sheen of lead,
dusty ash, and smokey charcoal—
exposed light on black lacquered metal.

Her lips softly close.
She will not release the song.
Inside on her tongue,
she tastes its notes,
droplets of honey
destined to soothe and bless.

Ferrotype

Is she resting? Or is she dreaming,
as the world sighs and burns itself out,
waiting for her to wake?