The Caress

Priscilla Atkins

Nothing here grapples 
or grasps. Though so 
much is happening—
at the top of the sweater, one 
small, shiny button is left 
unbuttoned. And the one
woman’s neck, fair as a 
bride’s, is taupe against 
the Peter Pan collar—
but this is 1916, France,
so we’ll say collerette. 
Head dipped forward, 
her Chagall-lashed eye closed 
in quiet reverie, the black-
haired woman—the one
in front—looks completely 
happy. No—peace. She 
looks at peace.  Her soft 
lips, two petals at rest; inside 
her mouth, the teeth might 
be a tiny row of sleeping 
angels.
Face hidden, the other 
woman—in back—wears 
a dark green cardigan. Her
arms, one gliding down from
above, one up from below, 
lightly enfold the first 
woman. (Enfold is close, 
but not quite.)  
Though the green-
sweatered woman’s face
is hidden, her flounce of 
tawny curls peeks over 
the other’s black tousled 
feathers, as happy as any 
winged thing. Hands, two 
doves, cupped and weight-
less as ballerinas.
Each stands on her 
own two feet. They have 
stood here for a while.  
A kind of caress shared 
by adult sisters. Or even 
mother and grown daughter.  
Or ego and alter-ego. 
The older reassuring the 
younger—unless they have 
reached that delicate age 
where the roles imperceptibly
pirouette, and reverse.