Winifred
Mok

It’s been some time since a man looked at me for me, and not what defines me. But of course I love the children. The youngest is an angel with Florentine features; the others do their duty bearing lineage and chores. They’ll do well, God willing; and may God grant us freedom from the French. I wonder if Leo thinks about politics, or if artists only concern themselves with affairs of beauty. I try to sit still. I imagine my own hand at oil painting, curves of his face, the sfumato of sunlight through glass. His creamy yellow palette reminds me: must check on the cheese and prepare their sale for Sant’Orsola. And if time’s spare, I’ll

sew silk with thread

vine leaves, gold wings

embroider the air