It’s an old black and white picture. She wore a round,  

flat top, two inch crown, wide brim hat tilted haughtily  

to one side. 

Her cheeks are ripe plums perched beneath two grapes, 

under cocktail umbrellas for eyebrows, protecting  

from summer sunlight and spring rain. 

Her nose and mouth are perfectly positioned on a face 

that’s neither long nor round, uncertain what shape to take, 

finished by a chin that puts it all in perspective. 

Her complexion is caramel I guess I can’t say for sure. 

She stares into the camera with that expressionless  

expression, common in pictures from that era, 

a year after coming North from the Jim Crow South, 

following a husband on the run, a baby in her arms, 

a four year old, a six year old at her sides. 

Not much more than a baby herself, she married  

at fourteen during the Great Depression 

Her attire defies her station in life, dressed in a two-piece 

black cashmere ensemble, with a three-quarter length  

fur-trimmed jacket from Fox Weiss Furriers, 

Furrier to the Elite. The skirt came mid-calf, draped over  

silk-stockinged legs, crossed at the ankles meeting her feet, 

slipped into a pair of U-tip, patent leather pumps. 

It’s a studio portrait. She’s posed sitting on a small armless,  

wooden bench, clutching a silver clasp clutch bag in her lap. 

The background is stark, no scenery, bare as dawn.  

She sits there alone, intriguing, as mysterious as the night.