 Young Woman Seated, by Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira (Brazil) 1896 Moça Sentada (Seated Young Woman) Nossa Senhora! comes to my mind, Our lady! I was raised by ladies like her, in Brazil in the fifties and early sixties, Black and White and Indian and other names of the races of women who were brought to these shores or from lands in the interior. In Brazil they were more than six million slaves raped from Africa and the Indians who would not serve yet remain, in the cast of a face and the crook of an elbow. She is seated and convoluted twisted so to show this is not her usual way to be the flower has escaped across her dress, no longer between her fingers, it is posed. Her head bust and legs form a z, the doe caught in the headlights and in contortions to escape not the man painting her he was the grandson of slaves! and a hopeless melancholic. She is the Algerian women Marc Garanger shot in 1960 with his camera the colonial registrar forcing each to uncover her face raping their intimacy while Marc sheltered their ferocity at colonial outrage in film. Some eye the camera in undiluted fury others just this side of fury, silently call out and wonder where are you taking me? Our moça is resigned no longer defiant like the Algerians, all and also brown skinned and bangled bright red shirt and almost a pout as she looks askance. The background is Da Vinci-like but with a little white boat breast high, no bigger than a moth, surely a psychopomp returning her soul to distant heavens. Slightly bent Lourdes cared for me, somewhere Indian, as a child she carried children on her back, twisting her spine, Black Domingas told us stories of one legged Saci-pererê, pipe-smoking, mischief-making child-sized Black man who ambushed travelers, at bedtime she lullabied me the boi da cara preta, the black-faced bull who ravished disobedient children and put me to sleep and here is our moça ravished and pinned down from three directions Indian and Black and White and now what genes what other trails will make themselves known? That information is trivial, three paths, no decisions, and in her twisted body and dark face and fleeing eyes she says see me here, preserve this moment, reshape my destiny for all eternity. David Herz ** On Canvas I lie with her like lovers do her whisper a longing against my skin do you love me not at all I laugh I lie to capture my love’s sorrow on canvas Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from Montreal Canada. May peace find us all. ** Pachyptera Amazonica Fernanda An aggressive vine native to the Amazon basin. Rooting in the jungle floor and growing into the treetops, it strengthens the forest. Named for Fernanda, a maiden who became jungle. The pachyptera's scarlet flowers recall her colourful garb and its sour fruit, her legendary pout. Folklore, like vines, has roots. This tale's origins are in the coming of European settlers and the clearing of the rainforest for their villages, cattle and rice. In it, young Fernanda sat along the dark river each day. Sat arranging her skirt just so. "You are idle!" scolded her mother. She nagged, "Daughter, plant! Tend the fire and stir the pot. Find a man. Birth a babe!" Said Fernanda, "Leave me." Along came Boto, the mysterious Amazon River Dolphin. Inia geoffrensis. Charmed by Fernanda's beauty, it playfully splashed her, and bubbled, "Come, human. Love me in the black waters." "I wish to sit," Fernanda said with a sniff. "Leave me." In the Pirahã tongue, Boto then cursed her and her arrogant kind who burn and chop the Amazon. "Father Jungle, take this one. Grow upon her." Pachyptera Amazonica Fernanda attaches with sticky tendrils before coiling around and around. Mothers still whisper to daughters how it will spirit them away forever. The tale ends with Fernanda's end, the vine creep-creeping towards her. She turned, saw it, and was unafraid. Karen Walker Karen Walker writes in Ontario, Canada. Her most recent work is in or forthcoming in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Misery Tourism, Centaur, Cosmorama, Overheard, and Bending Genres. @MeKawalker883 ** Zeferina I sit on this stone bench with a view of the baía, thick tropical heat holds me in place. So many evenings, I waited here for you, watched for your boat, listened for your footsteps. Now, even the setting of the sun provides scant relief, even the whisper of a breeze gives nothing more than a taste of salt. I can hear the waves lapping at the shoreline, but I no longer gaze toward the sea. There is nothing for me there. Não há nada para mim lá. The gold that encircles my wrists, my fingers, a symbol of devotion, you said, you promised, as you caressed my limbs, kissed my eager lips. There is nothing for me there. Não há nada para mim lá. The future lies within me, this child who grows more active day by day. I will not turn to the sea. There is nothing for me there. Não há nada para mim lá. Torrential rains will come to banish this oppressive air, and like the plumería, whose blossoms fill the night with sweet perfume, I will find beauty in the darkness. Jennifer Hernandez Jennifer Hernandez teaches immigrant youth and writes poetry, flash, and creative non-fiction. Her writing can be found in poetry walks and publications. Some recents include the Tucson Haiku Hike, Sleet Magazine, Mom Egg Review Quarterly, and Heron Tree. Jennifer enjoys performing her poetry because the interaction between word and audience is where the magic happens. She recently received her first Pushcart nomination. ** Grieving Are you? In the nothingness of spring. By the nest where the bulbul sat over the eggs. Grieving, are you? For the forsaken flowers- that must wait to wither. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** Sunday River "More than a distant land Over a shining sea More than the steaming green More than the shining eyes... Oh, what a night, wonderful one in a million -- (Oh, what a night) Frozen fire Brazilian stars Oh Holy Southern Cross --" James Taylor, Only A Dream In Rio A white sailboat floats in the background of the canvas, visible behind the tower of a castle, the location of the last royal ball in Rio de Janeiro. Called January River by the Portuguese Rio declared its independence, did the artist dream of freedom as he painted the girl he'd chosen for Young Woman Seated? She is dressed in vivid colours, gold & garnet; a skirt with sea-green ribbons; and a bodice, chili-pepper red, or crimson-red as blood... She pouts, petulant, in her portrait seated on a shelf of hard stone, granite from the Corcodova Mountain that borders Guanabara Bay. Is she annoyed with the artist her lips fixed and sulky, her expression both determined and sexual? And where had she picked 2 wild blooms -- anemones and memories -- in pink and purple as if hers might be a love story unexpressed, though she presses the flower petals in a diary, on the page where, it is noted that he has drowned. Does she think of his art how she watched him paint, one hand manipulating a paint brush; both hands hoisting a sail that looked like the white wing of an angel? It is 1896, the year he paints her picture; and the year he dies at 33, his body lost for 2 days in the Bay. Did she ever wonder if his fate could have been different if the Cristo sculpture had spread His arms above Bandeira's boat, blessing the waters? If the Cristo Redento of the Andes could create a miracle? Bandeira rising, gasping for air, alive as he surfaced? But the mountain top is empty in 1896, uninhabited by the Redeemer an Ikon that wasn't built until 1931, a year she could follow steps up the mountainside; witness the view of Rio as it stretched beneath the Cristo's open arms. Did she pause in her walk to pick 2 new wind-flowers (nature's name for the anemones) thinking of her pout, the way she'd been impatient, ill at ease, sitting for a portrait -- how he'd captured her young face -- as if the broken art of dreams is woven into fate. Laurie Newendorp Honoured many times by the Ekphrastic Challenge, Laurie Newendorp's book, When Dreams Were Poems, explores the visionary world of art as it is related to poetry. She lives and writes in Houston. ** Ingenue They say patience is a virtue. Do you think of this while you wait? Do you hold your thighs tight against the want? Do you listen to the cardinal singing in the tree behind you, oblivious to the howl deafening the beat of a heart betrayed? If only all the other loves, who will one day stroke your cheek and twine their fingers in your hair, appeared before you. Now. You’d never think of him again. Your frown would curve into a smile bright as starlight; blinding as a forest fire. The pale sky above you would burst into a symphony of blue. The rising breeze of joy would fill the sails of a boat adrift. Quicken the blood of a heart bereft. Suffuse the faded flowers on your skirt with red and peach, soft as the fingers of a lover’s hand. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia in traditional Yuin country, and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces. ** It’s Come to This I can’t make you kiss the clouds whispering over the calm blue skin of the ocean. Looking away from a sailboat in poutiness— a memory of our future no longer buoying. Not as flower stems that rest in your lap, the tide of a gold skirt. It’s come to pass. Your white-laced wings jut from red silk. Each silent moment is a fabric. Te amo-- no matter. I fell from the cliff nearby, but I’ve come to never lose sight of you. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review,Panoply, San Pedro River Review, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. In December, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover. ** Face Down Wisdom At noon when my stomach is full and hot and round like the beguiling sun above is when I’ll raise my eyes across a plain unseen-- you are far too young now, and hadn’t been born then-- and with flowers lying across the stripes of my skirt, like hostages tied to a railroad track, I’ll draw my face gaunt and low and stared down a sniffing, self-impending sense, blowing through my hair, like it is wind, it dies down, to grow tall and assured, as if there is immediate victory in strength. My stomach full, but the cavity for my heart, it is sick and shallow not as something which has never been filled, but as something burned away, all the excitement I once had with my youth having gone, probably wasted, and yet I say to the tall wisdom: I am young, I am far too young. But of course look to my face now, see wisdom. Patricia K. B. Manley Patricia “Tricia” K. B. Manley is a former third-year student of the creative writing program at the Fine Arts Center in Greenville, SC, and a rising college freshman at Western Carolina University. She is the former design editor for Crashtest, an online literary magazine run by the writing program at the FAC, focused on promoting the works of high school students internationally. ** Zenia in February 1869 Be sure to smile, mamãe said before bundling me off with this lunatic skin darker than mine and not a photographer like the one in the new shop in Ipanema We are not animals, mamãe said you get painted in your third best dress borrow my bangles, hold these flowers under that brush we’ll drown the past year find you a husband to replace the husband you never had, descanse em paz as if paz has ever set foot in this house Actually, I don’t mind the carriage ride or a day out on Praia Vermelha, cliffs climb behind me like the back of a throne said this painter, even though mamãe told him don’t put the cliffs in, just pretend she is somewhere the fiancé didn’t leap to his death but here I am, lap full of zinnias so some fat man sweating in the parlor will guess my name’s Zenia, think himself clever I don’t miss him, the one gone or to come let this day out last forever me with this turpentine-smelling stranger who I could grow to love because he keeps saying not to smile even though the tree is perfeita I don’t tell him why this expression sits so easy on my face — see that boat small and white in the distance I already know it is death coming for him I am his last painting, alone, surrounded by men who can’t stay alive Angela Kirby Angela Kirby earned a BA in Creative Writing from Duke University. She is the 2022 Second Prize Winner of the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry and a double winner of the Anne Flexner Memorial Prize. Publications include Nimrod International Journal, Roanoke Review, The Light Ekphrastic, and Humber Literary Review. ** Autopsy A wistful sadness, looking back, reflecting on what might have been; the open flower is soon to fade, and half closed bud to never bloom, potential yet unrealised? Those bangled wrists, by metal form, and glinting ring an index of the slavery descendancy that bore a son unrecognised. The tailor’s boy knew how to clothe, from bright puff sleeves, lace collar trim, vermillion of tie wrapped top to yellow flow with blue stripe fall. Was that to flag El Salvador, the host of his professorship, and where, near to, century on, he made his stamp with home Brazil, diplomacy established then? His medal, gold, art history, might seem fool’s gold as hopes foretold were thwarted, Europe, own art school, despite success, exhibiting, design and landscape brought to nought. Attempted launch was cause of death, both school and boat, more thwarted float; a fortnight cold Bandeira tossed amongst the shoals, fish teeming schools. A shoulder hunch, rejected such, the face surrounded, bordered locks, that indrawn breath, once hope now shade, a rock dark cove ’gainst sea and sail. How sad that skill, enfolding cloth, serenity in graceful arms, set scape of sun hint, fruitful leaves, should end by waves of being lost, no autopsy of body, soul. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by online poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Tarnished Expression He drowned in Guanabara Bay though it’s apparent his boat launch may have been his attempt to end pain beyond measure --the right corner of his canvas has no horizon but a triangular sail reflecting a pearly white that moves between sky and water. His seated woman frowns at his abridged future--no oil palette to mix auspicious shades of primary colours--no contests to enter granting him a study in Europe She is on the verge of standing--pushing up and off from her passive position. The broad open planes of her face invite me inside her I squint at her gold and silver bracelets the ring on her index finger. I too wear a tarnished bangle-- a slender heirloom from my godmother--meant to ward off evil and sadness of unknown origin Jenna Rindo Jenna Rindo trains for races from the 5K to full marathon and arranges words in rural Wisconsin. She worked as a pediatric RN and an ELL teacher and now tutors and mentors refugee students. Her poems and essays have been published in AJN, Calyx, Tampa Review, Verse Virtual, One Magazine and Relief: a journal of Art and Faith. ** Girl Seated brushed-beige dusky girlpoised to run, belied by the yearning in her eyes, she longs to stay be with him the portulaca slips from her fingers forgotten, like her heritage. Wait here, he says, I'll be back. He runs off, answering his father. Hidden love, will she run? Sandra Rogers-Hare *Note: Portulaca. Moss rose, Portulaca grandiflora, is a drought and heat tolerant annual native to hot, dry plains in Argentina, Uruguay, and southern Brazil. Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira, a Brazilian, is a descendent of slaves. After a career in education, Sandra has been writing books. She facilitates a writers' workshop, travels, studies history and takes photos of street art. Her memoir, Salmagundi, The Story of a Mixed Race Child Growing up in New York and Minnesota, was published in 2017. She is presently writing prose-poetry about her experiences in the controversial utopian cult, Synanon, to be published in 2025. Sandra has six grandchildren, one of them canine. She lives in San Leandro, California. ** Harvesting Silence Is she waiting for them to walk together by the sea where the gleam of wet slate dissolves in hours? Lost in thought her eyes vacant, her lips tight, her face forlorn, outlined in long black hair while expressionless, she sits perched on a cliff yards from a ragged coast. She no longer listens for the timbre of his voice, while her focus creates a yearning for his touch as a cloud-laden sky retains her regrets. Jim Brosnan A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies are available [email protected]. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He is a full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI. ** Olive Season Misery you’re a woven thought, spiteful bracelets on my wrists. you’re a wilted fern I water out of pity, and I liked you better before our encounter in olive season. your past transgressions interfere with my chosen solitude. how long, I wonder, before I can imprison your name in a cerebral cell and throw the key away? you missed your ride, I watched the sailboat leave. now, here you are with me-- a blotch on my sunset, a smudge on my horizon, and I want you to leave so I can despise you in peace. sometimes, I pity you, but I wouldn’t hate it if you tripped down your mama’s stairs-- past her olive trees-- and onto the red cobblestone. your cousins’ cruel laughs at your bloody knees tattooed with the ferns you can’t be bothered to keep. Claudia Althoen Rooted in the vibrant cultures of Edmonton, AB, and Minneapolis, MN, Claudia Althoen finds solace and inspiration in the written word. For her, writing is not just a form of expression but a way to navigate and understand the complexities of the world and the human experience. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review. ** He Kissed a Flower In honour of the almost 200 Welshmen who fought with the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil War. Among them was Victoriano Esteban, a member of the Spanish community in Abercrave in the Swansea Valley, who worked in the International Colliery. Born to Spanish immigrants he grew up speaking Spanish and Welsh. He was one of 289 volunteers killed in the Battle of Brunete a day after they took the village of Villanueva de la Caňada from Nationalist rebels. They came to Villanueva in the night. So many of them, thirsty, tired, wounded, into the ruins of our village here. The others fled. We were frightened, throats sore from screaming. There were bodies everywhere. Tia Elena lay bloodied in the dirt: one of the sublevado human shields. We ran as they came, calling out in languages we didn’t understand. I tripped and cowered but one man stopped. He smiled. I feared the worst. He spoke to me in Spanish though his accent was strange. His speech was gentle though his hands were rough from mining coal in a place he called Wales, Cymru, Gales.. He said his name: Victoriano. I gave him water and we talked like friends, a kind of peace when all around was war. As they moved off he kissed a flower he’d found and handed it to me, then stood in line, waved, and shouted Volveré, fy nghariad. I cannot dare believe he will return. I watched him march off, sad and sure none of us knows the price of victory; the flower he gave me, wilting in my lap. Carolyn Thomas sublevado - the name used for the Nationalist rebels. Volveré - Spanish – ‘I will return’ fy nghariad - Welsh – 'my love' Carolyn Thomas is from the Neath Valley in South Wales. She is now retired after a career of teaching in Further, Higher and Adult Education. She has reviewed for Stand magazine and her poems have been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Dreich, Impossible Archetype and other magazines. Her stories appear in two anthologies, Lipstick Eyebrows and Painting the Beauty Queens Orange, published by Honno Welsh Women's Press. She currently lives on Tyneside with a misanthropic cat and, being Welsh, proudly sports a dragon tattoo. ** Second Thoughts I’ve stayed till you became a fingernail of pale paint on the grey horizon. I’ve waved till my arms caved, though I’m sure you’re too engaged to make me out – drowning in sails, salt spray and splash. I’ve rubbed the ring you fixed on my finger which fits like a padlocked corset. I’ve plucked a purple daisy and you love me not, so now I’m tucking this second bloom in my hair and turning my head the other way. Helen Freeman Helen Freeman loves trying her hand at the prompts on The Ekphrastic Review. She also has a beautiful Brazilian sister-in-law who had no second thoughts about her brother. She has poems published on various sites and magazines and currently lives in Durham, England. Instagram @chemchemi.hf ** Feijoada Gabriella dreams of her mother’s Feijoada, remembering the steam fogging her glasses as she inhaled the wafts of rich earthy black beans, salty pork, and tangy tomatoes. Sometimes, her mother would throw in bits of fried bacon, which would add a pop of smokiness. Sunday's Feijoada was the best. On Sundays, Gabriella and her mother would walk to the fruit stand after church and pick up a few laranjas, oranges and carry them back in their bare hands. Gabriella always wanted to eat one on the walk home, the morning sun quickly running up the sky, but Mama always said saving it for the stew would be worth the wait. She was right. A little bit of fresh orange zest and a slice or two on top of the brimming bowl imparted just the right zing, each spoonful a hug for Gabriella’s stomach. Gabriella still remembers the cooling feeling of her bare feet standing on the smooth wood of the footstool when she was still too small to reach the stove. The varnished slab was a welcome relief to the blanket of heat wrapping her as she hovered over the pot to stir while her mother cut up the carrots, the tomatoes, the cabbage, the pork trotters. Mama would let her taste it every so often, making sure the melange of flavors was singing in perfect harmony. “Cauteloso,” —careful, she’d say as she blew a gentle puff of breath right over the ladle. Then she’d carefully guide the sip up to Gabriella’s watering mouth for a test. “Delicioso!” It was always delicioso to Gabriella, but sometimes Mama would add more salt, more farofa, or even some coriander anyway. Then, when Gabriella was still small enough, her Mama would lift her from the stool and whirl her around the kitchen, her hand-sewn apron dancing like a superhero cape. They’d laugh and laugh until Mama was laughing too hard to hold up Gabriella any longer. They’d both crumple to the floor like marionettes, Gabriella’s head on her mother’s chest, listening to her heartbeat, listening to the delicious melody of the Feijoada bubbling on the stove. It was Sunday’s symphony, one that outdid any church hymns, any organs and voices singing to the heavens. Gabriella’s favorite part was when the family finally sat down to dinner to enjoy the final masterpiece after it had simmered and simmered all afternoon. They’d both sit across from Gabriella’s father, who never stepped foot in the kitchen except to eat. Papa always got to have the first spoonful while Gabriella and her mother watched in anticipation of his approval, their growling bellies begging for it to come quickly. Papa would close his eyes and lift his face towards the ceiling, holding the stew in his mouth like a secret. Sometimes, it seemed to take so long for him to swallow that Gabriella would look up at the ceiling herself, trying to count the dead flies resting in the domed glass covering the bulb. Finally, Papa’s throat would squeeze. He’d smile and say it was the best Feijoada he’d ever had. “My girls have outdone themselves again!” “It was all Gabriella,” Mama would say, and then give a loving wink, the gleam of light catching moisture in her chestnut eyes. “No, Mama. We did it juntos!” Gabriella always dragged out the last word--juntos, together, partly to set the record straight, partly because she’d never wanted it any other way. “Well, someday soon you’re gonna be a better Feijoada master than me!” Gabriella’s father would always follow up with his same silly suggestion that they try a cook-off to see who could make the better Feijoada, but the battle never happened. They were a cooking team. Though Gabriella could now easily reach the stove without the old footstool, it wouldn’t be possible to compare Feijoada recipes; she never wanted to anyway. She hasn’t allowed herself to bathe in the intoxicating aroma or felt the steam kiss her cheeks before the first savory bite since her mother died. It’s been just too painful to think about making it alone. Even if she wanted to, it’s been too long to remember how Mama seasoned the offal or the right ratio of black beans to tomatoes. She’s nearly forgotten the velvety chorus of the pot simmering on the stove, Mama’s grounding heartbeat, and the echoes of their riotous laughter filling the cozinha. What she does know is that it’s still the loveliest melody she’s ever heard. Amber Sayer Amber is not new to the world of writing, as she is a professional health and fitness writer by trade. However, she hasn't done any creative writing in over 20 years and is excited to start exploring the depths of her imagination and taping into the power of expressing her feelings through words. ** Dear Womanteen, I really want to know what you mean with that perplexed gaze with no soul around to impress with your dazzling dress made under your grannies oracular spells. and meant only for your Destino’s fantasies, It took them a life of faithfulness to create it as a visual potion for the eyes of the one-and-only now waiting for you at the port – the cool foreign traveler you recently met at your village market while he was searching for a local amulet and got captivated by your rings and bangles wired as ‘dithyrambs’ as he said; and though you did not understand you took the jingling word as a compliment; more to it – since he recognized their charm your grannies, greatly awed, took it as a sign that he was the one and let you go to him on your own, as if it was to collect heaven-dropped manna from your garden. You were just fifteen, but your grannies bet on your amulets and prophesied your life will be spent in a far away land. So, for that anticipated momentum you dressed to the best: this splendid blouse was made on the day you were born by your maternal granny out of joy that you carried her name, and she made it from untreated cotton, so all natural spells of elements, miracles and events that happened to the plant were meticulously preserved as stamped – each oscillation prompted by bees’ flickering, each nightingale’s song echoing, all the sun and moon kisses, the rain’s whisperings – all that produces the manna of bliss was saved as it was and is; and just like the frame concludes the painting so the dress wrapped your body to impress even with suspense - the red application enhanced your oracular defense. Your fraternal granny made your golden skirt when you turned thirteen to proclaim the opening of your new blossoming page; and thus they conceived to the fringe your coming of age honeyed hinge, someone was about to open to the last inch. But, it’s said, we never know the fate’s last caprice of flow. Bandeira appeared on that spot, placed his easel ad hoc and thought of capturing the might of the rock against the mood of the sea as best as his eye can see; but as she emerged from behind framed in her oracular apparel, her hair curling the wind, her eyes penetrating the horizon, his attention turned off the radar from the sea’s blue infinity and in his thought he began brushing her dark mane as a divinity; while all he could mumble was ask her to ‘just sit and look at him as she liked as she deemed’. She stopped and turned her face with that perplexed gaze: “I don’t get you Sire, but I can watch whatever the almighty sends in front of my eyes; I wanted to sit, any way, to gather myself from the pushing slope of the mountain battling rolling pebbles and thorny shrub, like a vicious brush”; while thinking to herself: “Grannies didn’t foresee this man’s omen; nevertheless, I’ll just let my feet rest, come to their senses and then take me to my waiting destino’s fancies”. She withdrew herself in the nest of that thought and left her baffled pose to its own accord – feet hanging, hands loose, flower elapsed, eyes absent in the outgoing moment, mystifying the play of marble and sea – in fact, the best posing act he was ever to see. When her look trembled it was understood she was about to go, so, he approached to show her what he saw. She had a look and went numbed, froze like the rock in that pose. The only thing she could do was poke her finger onto the canvas to check if it wasn’t her doppelganger her grannies kept telling her exist in a parallel twist of fate and do malice to our mindfulness. She couldn’t move. Her feet were glued. He had brushed away their senses unto the canvas’ fancies, smuggled between the folds of her dress-to-impress, in the unimpressive cracks of the rock, on the waving branches of the tree on the top. Her amulets powers were brushed aside. His filbert strokes took over their places. For better for worse, a cotton-soft canvased bond turned out to be a magic wand. Bandeira got lost in brushing her hair. Her irises glided along the soft strokes with pebbles’ flair. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and her poems have been frequently honoured by TER and its challenges. Her collection Ekphrasticon has been published by Europe Edizioni, 2021.  Our third annual ekphrastic marathon is coming up soon! 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