Old Margaretha’s Hand

Timothy B. Dodd


grabs me, the right one; a 1661 grip 

stopping my stroll. I gaze at execution

of the arms dealer’s wife, Van Rijn’s

commission in millstone ruff. Motors 

fade, footsteps mute, I pass myself

to her. Under the sky roof, clouds 

milk the sun, the locus a fragment

of her canvas. That hand, parched

skin running veins like graveled streets

as evening falls, doors following 

the last departed; her guards gone,

lights never known. Through the night

I stare, awaiting guidance, a touch 

of dark ether. Comes when she rotates 

her wrist, shows the palm, and closes 

on my heart. Rembrandt’s foreclosure.