Autumn — Portrait of Lydia Cassatt (Mary Cassatt 1880) You were your almost-famous sister’s favorite model, posed on a mint-green park bench, shawled in a blanket. It’s the coldest Impressionist painting I know, colder than Monet’s sun-scrubbed Haystacks in Winter but that’s because I know too much. Your black bonnet and knotted scarf, those knitted gloves, the way your sister tucked the blanket around your lap and legs with more than sisterly concern for the damp chill rising off the Seine … You’re dying, your failing kidneys flooding your body with the toxic waste of being alive — your pale, precisely limned face, both cheeks lightly kissed with fever flush, the only still point in the painting. Seven years Mary’s senior, you were her designated chaperone in Paris once she decided America had nothing left to teach her about art. Dutiful, first-born daughter of Philadelphia’s upper crust, free to learn nothing more practical than knitting and needlepoint. Mary painted you at both, blank canvas she turned to again and again, crocheting in the garden wearing a gauzy white frilled bonnet and French blue dress, or sitting at a tapestry loom, keeping a careful eye on the work at hand, while the dark wall and window dissolve in a bright white column that’s beginning to claim a sturdy, lathe-turned table leg. A more ominous dissolve stopped me the first time I saw you on your green bench: Mary’s scraped and reworked the bottom of your blanket until it’s the same reds and sulfur of the bare flower bed, painting you out of the picture. But is it from grief at losing you or rage at what’s taking you from her? Or had she discovered there’s no difference? Aaron Fischer Aaron Fischer’s poems have appeared in the American Journal of Poetry, Five Points, Hudson Review, and elsewhere. He won the 2020 Prime Number Magazine poetry contest, 2023 Connecticut poetry prize, 2023 Naugatuck River Review poetry prize, and the Maria W. Faust sonnet contest. He’s been nominated for a 2024 Pushcart.
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June 2025
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