Lady in a Red Shirt

Her arms move too easily
To have been born a Catholic or a Jew.
Neither guilty nor portentous,
They seem outrageously comfortable.

Passing as a spirit from Renoir,
I do not record her person,
Just arms moving with an unconscious rhythm
That, naive as a child’s,
And unweighted by life’s inevitable encounters,
Do not disown responsibility.

Passing along the beach-walk,
Through the leisurely stroll
Of the Sunday families and religious joggers,
Her difference diminishes and finally dissolves.