Margaret Layton's Jacket
Beyond the mullioned windows -
while you sat stock-still –
dogs chased boars
through intricate thickets,
sails of Spanish galleons
weighed the wind.
Now your ruff,
your feathered hat, have fled,
as has your flesh,
for all its porcelain.
Here, though, is your jacket –
its spangled braille
asking to be touched,
its birds and bay leaves
perched and poised
in the present air.
When it was sewn a second timewith an artist's brush,
your breasts filled
the embroidered circles
I could now so easily
circle with my hand.
You wore it last
four hundred years ago,
and yet I feel
your jacket is still warm.
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