Infant / Infanta
1653 it begins the
slow bloom
of portraits, of a swollen cheek
heavy and soft in oils, baby skin
blushing little
roller
little thing. A match struck
will burn hotter every year. The first of
many
corsets, stiff skirts hands hovering
on other surfaces as if to say
I am here, Uncle, and I can set the table.
As if to say I am full
like this round rose petals like skirts
can open in layers, the years
your anxious friends.
1653 a proposal
the first of many promises a small thing
harmless as a lost tooth we are skipping
many pleasantries Uncle, we
direct our gazes downward,
we see
each other only. This painter
loves me with every pearl white
highlight on lace every exposed wrist.
As if to say why don’t you stroke
my face call me cosset a brush
did it once.
