some small island birthed
her and a big (probably) white ship took her
from mother to come
to america’s recreation

she lives in the top of my building
i only know her through her eyes
she is old now not only from years
but from aging

one gets the impression she was most
beautiful and like good wine
or a semiprecious jewel touted out
for the pleasure of those
who could afford
her recreation

her head is always high
though the set of her mouth shows
it’s not easy
she asks nothing
seems to have something
to give but no one to give it
to if ever she gave it
to anyone

age requires happy memories like louvenia smiled
when she died and though her doctor had told her not 
to there was pork cooking
on the stove
there are so many new mistakes
for a lady of pleasure
that can be made it shouldn’t be
necessary to repeat the old
ones

and it was cold
on the elevator that morning
when i spoke to her and foolishly asked
    how are you
she smiled and tilted her head
    at least, i said, the sun is
    shining
and her eyes smiled   yes
and i was glad to be
there to say through spirits
    there is a new creation
to her

 = Joan Grant