Painting after painting glints
with hard reflection. The peeling
tenements seen from the train.
The kitchen, wide and green.
Looking out or in, always
the pane, the view, her own
eyes looking back. Of course,
I know what this means:
distance. The cold, trapped years.
All true, she agrees. But
just when I’m feeling sure
of her, of everything,
she paints a door.
And steps through.
By Sharon Weightman Hoffmann
Sharon Weightman Hoffmann is a writer based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. Publications include The New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Showcase, Banyan Review, Letters, Poetica, Alice Walker: Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), and Isle of Flowers (Anhinga Press). Previous awards include fellowships from Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs and Atlantic Center for the Arts, and two Pushcart nominations.