Out Hedda Sterne’s Window, 1956, by C. Zeeck

Out Hedda Sterne’s Window, 1956

I wonder how she narrowed her gaze,
softened the edges of her vision, and
fixed her stare before it was broken
again. Is this evidence of that focused 
eye? A frame beyond girders, beyond 
glass. The pane and panel, the steel 
bones crosswise, and the brittle crusts 
of New York wearing sunlight like 
dandelion blush. 

Does the city speak its own name in 
creaking metal and the monotone coo 
of trucks moving in reverse? Here, 
there’s none of that. Sound is frozen, 
but vibrancy is played out in depth, in 
artifact. There is a metropolis of people 
here but they’re all implied. Lives caught 
as a suggestion in dark and pale 
strokes of empire. 

Was there anyone behind Hedda, 
anyone who, were they to step forward, 
would enjoy being captured in crisp 
lines? A friend, patient and calming,
 leaning against a cracked white pillar, 
leafing through old issues of Vogue. 
Perhaps it was a disheveled lover snoring
 softly, half concealed by flowered sheets 
and sharp morning shadows. 

Or maybe it was the same unspoken 
millions, trapped in canvas upon 
leaning canvas in earlier versions 
of their own world. Aspiration and 
status shot up through dark blurred 
lines, a gray sprawling growth awash 
in its own cold stillness. The scalloped 
mirror of a slow river brushed smooth, 
reflecting only blue sky. ​

C. Zeeck

This poem responds specifically to New York, by Hedda Sterne (USA, b. Romania) 1956. Click here.

C. Zeeck is an educator living and writing in Chicago.