limelight

for Sarah Dunnam Lewis, 1855-1924

This lamp is a woman.

The chimney's seductive curve,

the floral lip, its symmetry is yours.

You sponged black soot,

replaced the wick, like walking

tightrope in your sleep.

Brood brought down the house,

but never you, never the lamp.

She faired a sideshow century

without a chip, crated-up

in steam engines and horse carts,

Burnt Corn to New Mexico,

till a deep-snow Hoosier night,

the undertaker raised her
over your face,
for one last applause.

He did not grope

the hand-painted porcelain,

but balanced her in his palm,
like a juggler.

Tess Kincaid
October 2, 2010

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This is also a Sepia Saturday post.