Objects on the Tray

The Maidservant, Camille Pissarro

The Chrysler Museum of Art     

Is someone not well?  The spoon in the glass
makes me think of medicine.  And her somber
third of a face, as she is walking away, shows

tight lips and gaze looking down, toward, but not
seeing, the objects on the tray she carries
servant-style, no thumb over the edge.

Perhaps it had been ice cream in the glass,
but I doubt it.  And i'm curious about her.
Her abdomen has gone soft and full as a spoiled

cat under the thousand-pleats apron.  The dull
butterscotch dress, how hard it must be to pull
that on every day, no matter how bright,

how white the pretty lace and ruffle collar
with matching cap--and straps, as if
she could ever get away for a walk, say

on the breezy coast and have need to tie it.
Where is the knot for her
apron strings?  I guess it's been worn so long

the knot, unbowed, has disappeared.
She looks too old in posture for that soft,
full cheek and high, modest curve of breast,

and dark (if it's lifted) eye.  The dappling sun
puts a hand through the walkway, despite
the walled enclosure of green, and rests

on her cheek, her dress, the back of her neck
as kindly as it does upon the walk,
the bench, the spoon.  does she feel it?  She is

no one and she knows it.  Almost disappeared
within herself, but useful.  Like the bench.  So why
does my heart ache, right in the center, like heartburn,

for a person I cannot touch, could never
reach; she has already gone ahead, already
rinsed the spoon.

(c)M. J. (Lanehart) Kledzik                         

published in Western Humanities Review, Spring 2000