——
You, there, that
torch in your fist,
stone-green stare like
a lady of the sea,
indigo water lapping
at your feet. I met you
in a vision
from Battery Park;
a painting from the early
Hudson school of
trappers, selling fur
to hat-wearing women
in corsets laced by
whales and expectations
strolling along the
Avenue of Freedom.
I remember my little girl
touched a gilded replica
of your crown—spikes
sharp as sunrays—not
brassplate; copper;
like new pennies:
Honest Abe
watching (heads);
peering out between
Memorial pillars
(tails); like a man
unaccustomed
to karma; kept
like a prisoner,
confused—looking out
for an eon, now two,
from behind those
white marble bars.
The Sanguine Woods 