A new poem remembering my sister and a time I painted her portrait.
MODEL
I met you again, darling sister,
in my painting of you that my studio tourists
pulled from the rack today.
The one I painted in those final days,
your stubble hair, Payne’s grey mixed with zinc white,
the flower too close behind you,
white lily, green stems faded to the color of moss,
your left hand cupping your wan and sunken cheek,
eyes, captive tin in the harsh light of your impending death
but wide open with a knowing you could not share.
I’m glad you sat for me,
though it was a shock to see
the women touch the edges of my painting,
and you still hovering in the canvas of my memory mind.
Marilyn Final Days