Lisa del Giacondo, 1495

Lisa del Giocondo, 1495

I am sunning myself on an Italian beach, fifteen
as of March. My brown hair, as thin as my father’s,
warms and drips its cow’s tallow pomade down my back,

into my ears. This smirk I wear is born of politeness,
not mirth. It keeps me from wrinkling my nose.
My mother—she is my father’s third wife, the first two

having died on their birthing beds—says ladies do not
wrinkle their noses, at least not where others may see.
Lisa, she begs. My dear. Smile. Say I, I am smiling.

Also, I hate you. Here it is July, and I fling off
my velvet dress, its heavy brown sleeves, my pearl
encrusted stomacher, and wade into the Mediterranean

in my chemise. It clings to my small brown nipples,
new curls of dark hair. I see my white feet
on yellow sand. An eel slips between my legs

and I’m not terrified at all. I’m married now.
My husband and my father, near in age, bear an affinity
born of grief, they being widowers of a set of sisters.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll go to my mother. Ask her,
am I already with child? Like her, I am a third wife.
I wade deeper, and the warm salt water buoys my arms,

lifts them like wings. Deeper still, and I raise my chin,
lay my head back and feel the sea on my scalp.
I shake my head, loose my braids to sway like weeds.

I try to wring the tallow from my hair. Says my husband,
you smell like beef, my sweet. Says he this in the night,
rocking me like water, pushing and pushing me back to shore.


Amanda Williamsen

The MacGuffin, 2021
Pushcart Prize nominee