Spirit

　　by Maggie Nelson

　　 The spirit of Jane

　　 lives on in you，

　　 my mother says

　　 trying to describe

　　 who I am. I feel like the girl

　　 in the late-night movie

　　 who gazes up in horror

　　 at the portrait of

　　 her freaky ancestor

　　 as she realizes

　　 they wear the same

　　 gaudy pendant

　　 round their necks.

　　 For as long as I can

　　 remember， my grandfather

　　 has made the same slip：

　　 he sits in his kitchen，

　　 his gelatinous blue eyes

　　 fixed on me. Well Jane，

　　 he says， I think I'll have another cup of coffee.