by Ditta Baron Hoeber
I have no photograph of Donna
I have no photograph of donna. I made a drawing once that was about her but of course not
really of her.
she watches
the child watches other children.
she sings small songs. little fists of song. and she watches.
the ugly duckling
sitting by the window on the trolley she sings to herself in her mind and thinks her song is beautiful.
the small unmusical child. she wants an audience.
a drawing
the picture about donna had in it christmas trees with wings. and angels. and a child on the
ground with arms reaching up. and a child lying on the ground with his back to you.
with his back to me.
cutting paper
the child would sit cutting paper for hours. she made a paper doll and made clothing for it but she
never played with it. she collected scraps of paper. envelopes with bright colored linings. foil from
cigarette boxes. she made the doll a slip made its lace edge with a paper punch. she made a
sweater by painting the colored paper with glue and then putting absorbent cotton on it and after
a while pulling it off leaving angora behind. once she made an evening dress with very small paper
roses sewn to it. this was a dress for her mother.
my mother’s handsome face
I made two photographs. one is a profile. simple. the light is clear on her warm skin.
the second photograph is accidentally twice exposed. the pearl of her earring presses into her lip.
a wave of hair falls illogically across her face. her eye below the wave of hair seems startled.
people remark on the beautiful profile but I prefer the accidental and more complicated face. the
one that looks like me.
