He wouldn't buy her shoes because her family was rich. So she washed the curds out of the milk bottles - love clung a sour white scab on glass - and took the bottles back to the dairy saving the pennies for cheap shoes. It was only after she was crippled that she came home on carbuncled feet, to live again with her brothers and sisters in the house where the prairie wind sloughed the last scent off the roses. She painted their roses on their plates; for their dining-room wall, in another frame, blue ripples of grapes falling into their own shadows on a tablecloth - bloom on china - ripeness on canvas. And again and again she painted herself, not in a palette of poses, but always quarter-profile against a ringent background; only shoulders and a fracture of a face, just enough to be someone you almost knew. When he died in a telegram she painted herself quarter-view again - a portrait of a woman as less than one. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THALIA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE EWE-BUCHTIN'S BONNIE by GRISELL BAILLIE GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 3 by RICHARD BARNFIELD LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE, THE AUTHOR LEFT .. VERSE by ROBERT BURNS LENVOY DE CHAUCER A SCOGAN by GEOFFREY CHAUCER TALES OF THE HALL: BOOK 18. ELLEN by GEORGE CRABBE WIDOWHOOD by MARY ELIZABETH B. CROUSE |