Mary Grace Mangano
Subway Sestina
The sluggish metal doors of the dark subway
Slid open slowly and all eyes cast down,
And all pretended not to sense the smell.
He took the open seat across from me.
He smiled with his legs crossed at the knees,
And two coats tight around his slumping shoulders.
Then he got up to peer over my shoulders
As passengers came on and off the subway.
I shifted the thin red book on my knees,
A gift I'd gotten and could not put down.
And he just stood there reading next to me.
I liked his company, though not the smell.
The poem was about the sea—that smell
Of salt and brine, and cool damp on the shoulders.
He then began to read aloud to me.
And I forgot that I was on the subway,
Though all the other riders still looked down,
And my red book still balanced on my knees.
He paused and crouched on bended, bandaged knees.
His eyes were clear and now his earthly smell
Did not offend or bother me. He glanced down
At the pale page and then over his shoulders
To check the train's next stop as the old subway
Screeched. Then he read, "What are you doing? Me,
I fill a lantern," looking right at me.
I looked at him, the book closed on my knees.
The whole world felt contained in that small subway.
The question echoed in me. I could smell
My salty tears that fell. He tapped my shoulders
And then he turned around as he stepped down
Onto the train's gray platform. I looked down
At my small hands. With his, he waved to me.
A passenger sat down and bumped my shoulders,
And squeezed into a seat. Uncrossing my knees,
I stood and inhaled the acrid smell
Of train exhaust and stepped off the old subway.
Then later, thinking of the subway, with
His smell still on my shoulders, I got down
On my knees with the question that he gave me.
Making a Bed
Four corners face me, framed by this small bed.
The mattress pills in places worn from use.
I stand at its foot, but then start at the head,
Tucking the sheet square underneath like you
Taught me. I hear you point out where it’s thin
And delicate. I tuck again right near
The edge. I reach across to its left twin
To do the same. It was this time last year
That you got sick, and had to shave your head.
But you were still you, always cracking jokes,
And holding court, although confined to bed.
I tried to help you sleep with gentle strokes,
Like you once did for me, tucked in my twin
Bed, all those years ago. I fell asleep
Before I knew you’d left, breath slow and thin.
For now, I give the sheet a final sweep.
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| Anna Lee Hafer is a studio artist based in the Philadelphia area whose work is heavily influenced by such famous surrealist painters as René Magritte, Salvador Dali, and Pablo Picasso, all of whom strove to build their own realities through small glimpses into a particularly confusing, but utterly unique worldview that dictates its own specific set of instructions. With references to the laws and physics of Alice's Wonderland, the artist challenges the audience's inherent understanding of perspective, reality, and universal order.
In her work, Hafer pours and layers paint to create dimension and texture, mixing different styles and colors onto each other until they produce a 3D effect. Through marker and pencil that create shadow, she further enhances these forms and separates them from the background. Heavier layers and thicker brushstrokes in the foreground of her work push the painting toward the viewer, whereas the thinner layers and small brushstrokes in the background, elongate the space and push away from the viewer. By juxtaposing interior and exterior elements, Hafer makes the audience question whether they are looking at something inside or outside.
For additional information, please visit www.hafer.work.
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