Great-grandmother

by Melanie Mendenhall

I have her eyes—

strange, the likeness so near

after going through the generations.

Even from the parched photograph

I can see the dazzle of life

singing from her eyes,

our eyes.

We’ve looked at different worlds

she and I,

different struggles,

but through the same eyes.

They say she loved beauty—

to create it

to paint, to write—

then my desires aren’t mine alone.

I have her eyes.