Painting of a Courtesan on a Roof, at Venice
When young, she never did pay much attention
To compliments accorded to all young.
But now with skin more like old fern on canvas,
She thinks, having idly tweezered away a moustache-
How it was roses, roses, once or said to be.
Eyes dreaming in their fat, recall they once were
singled
Out for a nickname by an insolent boatman.
A blessed insolence, since so long remembered.
Like a dynasty settled
In some remote last capital, the eternal female
Recalls her empire before barbarian age
Entered the palmed peninsula of youth.
And tries the crown of early portraits on,
Before an imagined mirror that if held just right, in
shadow,
Will be her last and lying courtier.
Structure
17 lines · 3 stanzas