Seventy I see nimble to the door learn to put two o’s
in rheumatologist insert an a in orthopaedic I sign
the consent permit the surgeon to slit my wrist whittle
my carpal meta carpal snip my tendon weave it over under
Through my clean scraped joint My thumb now holds
its own again and I go back to work Dorothea Dead at
seventy At the end bones alone On the opposite coast
your retrospective poised to open Your hand in it everywhere
your last words fit this expectation —
Isn’t it a miracle it comes at the right time?
Did legacy count that much with you? I never
thought fame’s yardstick your driving force
Somewhere else months later I found another version
You said, It’s in scale
Margo Mensing has recently completed a sonnet cycle on the lives and work of Dorothea Lange and Maynard Dixon.