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

    gaudy¹ 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

    fixed² on me. Well Jane，

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