after the hand-coloured drypoint of the same name by Mandy Renard, 2021



Each eight weeks or so we make our slow way here

to the ophthalmologist’s rooms. I heave the door, find

a mask, pinch it on her nose and loop her ears.
It catches in her hearing aids. I try to wind

it into place. Unless she sees my moving lips

she cannot hear. Each eight weeks I must remind
her why we’ve come. A soft-shoed nurse with stickers asks which

eye requires the needle. She’s sorry, doesn’t know.

I answer for her. Little moans and thin, high-pitched
whimpers leave her. She’s sick of school and ready to go

home, picks up her bag and walking stick, is restless.

I move her to the seats that face the other wall, so
she can see the egret in the etching press

its head against the woman’s head, its knowing eye

above the woman’s eye. Through her ribboned dress
of kelp, trevalla follow mullet; the sea or sky’s

a dreamy, streaming, turquoise bed where all is well.

Behind, beyond, two smaller u-necked egrets fly.
My mother squints. Her world is only literal

and only now or long ago, but there’s a need

to understand, to make the image out. She settles
for a mermaid. Yes, could be, I say, a mermaid…

If my mother turns a moment from the spot

and back, the mystery’s renewed, the task replayed.
But still there are beloved things she’s not yet lost:

my sisters’ names and mine, the scent of fruit and flowers,

the mauve of lavender. She’ll plant an apricot
next year. For now we’ll sit together in the now

and wait. The egret-woman with her skirt of fish

is there again and still, steady in her power.