Christina’s World

by Valerie Lawson

Christina’s World
Of course, she’s an old cripple, for Pete’s sake!
                                                      Andrew Wyeth 

He saw her scuttle crabwise
across the field beyond the lawn.
Thin arms prop and propel; a bundle of sticks
dragging a kit bag on an exposed hillside —

but for the pink dress, the hip curve,
the compass needle of unruly hair
pointing to the cove beyond
the elliptical runway of the rutted road.

She wore down hard New England acres
with her passage from spinster farmhouse
to bachelor barn.  It took an awareness
to lift her from the grass, to see her

for what she was.  Here in Maine,
tides swap land and sea, Aputamkon
and selkie appear in hidden pockets
along its craggy coastline.

Once he found one, he saw them everywhere.
To find them, you must first look away.
He learned this from his father,
would pass it on to his son.

In the patient tempera hours models
let down their guard.  He did everything
he could to keep them from singing
as he painted.  The scuba girl, his wife

on that blueberry afternoon before the storm,
the sentinel dog a distraction — how could one
intrude and belong?  He keeps their secrets,
reveals just enough to satisfy as they emerge.