I look at her face, the passages leading nowhere.
I stare at this face, irritated, secluded, unresponsive.
It is a naked face, the texture, mature, retiring, fearful.
Her mouth retreats from all the memories and images.
It doesn’t ask me any questions, it barely moves, keeps me waiting.
I lean in to perceive where we both left off.
She buried me somewhere, I look for myself in her gaze.
I can’t tell whether she is even looking at me.
Everything is jammed inside of her, stuck, sickening.
She smoothened her features, the skin, secretive, flat, soft.
To compose the chaos within, the exploding forms, the shrine.
And she seals herself off and swallows and looks at me with a breaking smile.
“Head of a Tudor Girl” by Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale (1872-1945)