The Tintype

 

She has no smile,

And possibly, she thinks

Her corset is laced too tightly

 

Her hair is

Twisted in dull bunches

Above the ears

 

The starched high

Collar cuts under

Her chin

 

Her lips are rigid

Holding, holding

Until the flash powder

 

Blinds her, she blinks

But we do not see

She smiles

 

Too late for her great, great

Grandchildren

Who stare

 

At her image

Searching

For their own faces.

 

 

 

© Diane E. Dockum, Just Beyond The Hill, 2008