She Walks in Beauty: A Woman's Journey Through Poems by Caroline Kennedy

dress is richly figured,
    And the train
    Makes a pink and silver stain
    On the gravel, and the thrift
    Of the borders.
    Just a plate of current fashion,
    Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
    Not a softness anywhere about me,
    Only whalebone and brocade.
    And I sink on a seat in the shade
    Of a lime tree. For my passion
    Wars against the stiff brocade.
    The daffodils and squills
    Flutter in the breeze
    As they please.
    And I weep;
    For the lime-tree is in blossom
    And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
    And the plashing of waterdrops
    In the marble fountain
    Comes down the garden-paths.
    The dripping never stops.
    Underneath my stiffened gown
    Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
    A basin in the midst of hedges grown
    So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
    But she guesses he is near,
    And the sliding of the water
    Seems the stroking of a dear
    Hand upon her.
    What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
    I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
    All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
    I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
    And he would stumble after,
    Bewildered by my laughter.
    I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
    I would choose
    To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
    A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover.
    Till he caught me in the shade,
    And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he
    clasped me,
    Aching, melting, unafraid.
    With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
    And the plopping of the waterdrops,
    All about us in the open afternoon—
    I am very like to swoon
    With the weight of this brocade,
    For the sun sifts through the shade.
    Underneath the fallen blossom
    In my bosom,
    Is a letter I have hid.
    It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
    â€œMadam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
    Died in action Thursday se’nnight.”
    As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
    The letters squirmed like snakes.
    â€œAny answer, Madam,” said my footman.
    â€œNo,” I told him.
    â€œSee that the messenger takes some refreshment.
    No, no answer.”
    And I walked into the garden,
    Up and down the patterned paths,
    In my stiff, correct brocade.
    The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
    Each one.
    I stood upright too,
    Held rigid to the pattern
    By the stiffness of my gown.
    Up and down I walked,
    Up and down.
    In a month he would have been my husband.
    In a month, here, underneath this lime,
    We would have broke the pattern;
    He for me, and I for him,
    He as Colonel, I as Lady,
    On this shady seat.
    He had a whim
    That sunlight carried blessing.
    And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”
    Now he is dead.
    In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
    Up and down
    The patterned garden-paths
    In my stiff, brocaded gown.
    The squills and daffodils
    Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
    I shall go
    Up and down,
    In my gown.
    Gorgeously arrayed,
    Boned and stayed.
    And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
    By each button, hook, and lace.
    For the man who should loose me is dead,
    Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
    In a pattern called a war.
    Christ! What are patterns for?

Crocheted Bag
    ROSEMARY CATACALOS
    Habibi, I want to live the string bag from Bahrain—a birthday
you say—
    with its brazen blue mouth and deep yellow light always rising
from
    below. Clearly a woman’s work, stitches through which the air
shines,
    and the things within are apparent from without. A woman’s days
    laced together, only closed enough to contain her faith. A woman’s
    fishing net, her dream, which, if slept upon, would mark the skin
    with equal-armed crosses that say the center is everywhere.
As grape
    leaves the world over are seasoned with the same sun. As no child
    anywhere should ever want to die. A woman’s prayer, with
handles
    top and