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.