The Evolution of Women

This form of poetry is called a Sestina. Notice every line ends in the same words of the first stanza, only they are arranged in a different order.

Some of the story in the poem is true but most of it is fiction. I wrote it after I saw an old picture my cousin sent me of an unknown woman. She asked me if I recognized her. I didn't but this poem tumbled out.

The Evolution of Women
Who is the woman in the photograph? Subdued smile
almost pretty, ring on her finger tells me she found love
or at least someone to marry after the World War.
Picture taken in the 1940's, we’re not related
mother knew her from Sears where they worked.
She looks twenty, seems uncertain about her place

standing outside her house at 825 Estancia Place.
Jack rabbit eyes don’t match her sublime smile.
Silk scarf around her neck and wavy hair work
to make her glamorous. He must have money but does she love
him? One hand resting on her belly, it may not be related,
could be expecting. Babies were important after the war.

She desired normal, no more thoughts of war,
but who could predict from that time and place
how much the world could change. People relate
through satellite and flickr sites to share a smile.
International relationships… did she ever find true love?
Is she divorced, widowed, or still married, did her life work?

Mother says change can be hard work.
Maybe this woman’s son never came home from the Vietnam War,
or her daughter opted for that hippie thing and free love.
After the kids were gone she might have moved to a different place,
and lived among strangers, and forgot how to smile
because everywhere she looked she couldn’t relate

to the people or the events. She could only relate
to her recollection of how the world used to work.
Childhood memories still make her smile.
If she’s alive today at eighty nine she faces loneliness, and war
against an aging body and has to look so many places
to find her glasses. Maybe she’ll get lucky and finally find love.

Yesterday, I found a picture of me in front of a house I loved.
The end of my hair touches the hem of my mini skirt. I can relate
to being twenty, ready to take my place
among the adults to do my part and go to work,
get married, raise a family, and wage war
for women’s rights. Petulant lips form my smile.

This picture of my daughter in front of Sea World, where she works,
trains dolphins, has no intentions of settling down. We’re related
and wage war about her future. She kisses me and gently smiles.