Woman at a Window

There’s nothing in my appearance except that I am disappearing

into the uncertain light; nothing that would make me certain

of any conviction, or if I’ve made the right decisions in my life.

At this point, with my skin drinking in the available light,

I find it impossible to remember if I am widow or wife,

if I’ve had a life of ease, a life of strife. In the darkening

afternoon, nothing has happened and nothing will soon.

I am sitting at the window, forgetting the day I was born,

watching people come and go, unseen, invisible.

My hands are calm, steady on my lap. I am lying low.

Whatever it was that…; I forget, the answer’s no.

There is something slow and pleasing about disappearing

into the dissolving light. Nothing now will come to light.

Secrets I might have had will go with me to my grave.

Lovers I might have loved walk ahead, or are already dead.

I am sitting here at my window emptying my head

of the past or the future perfect, or the conditional.

I already know what is impossible, what’s not been said.

In the room next to me, someone is playing a few bars

of an old piano; if ever I danced, I’ve forgotten

the steps; if I ever longed for change, I’ve lost

the path I meant to follow. Now, I am all shadow.

I sit at the window listening to the piano.

What was lost won’t now come back. I’ve let it go.

Óleo de Edgar Degas, poema de Jackie Kay